UC-NRLF 


SARGENT   WILSON 
AND  J.L.SARGENT, 


to 

'Ac<  ^-v>^  't  <v<  i^^MMlo^.'x^c;  <^A*^ 
^A%'io^  Nr-  w  ^'^41^®^^^^ 
ii^^y^Sdi^^^ 


f   Xv 


"Oh,  the  glory  of  that  spring  day!"     Page  63 


SUGAR-PINE  MURMURINGS 


BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT   WILSON 

AND 

J.  L.  SARGENT. 


PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  AUTHORS 
BY 

THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY   COMPANY 

INCORPORATED 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL. 

1899 


Copyright  1899 

by 
Elizabeth  Sargent  Wilson. 


We  lovingly  dedicate  this  book  to  our  parents, 
Julia  E.  and  A.  J.  Sargent,  through  whose  encour 
agement  and  self-denial  we  are  able  to  put  it  be 
fore  the  public. 

ELIZABETH  SAEGENT  WILSON. 

J.  L.  SAEGENT. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
Tailings  7 

Nuggets  29 

A  Digger  Injun 43 

El  Christo 51 

Majel    59 

The  Justice  of  John  Fannin 67 

The  Colonel  and  Betty  Ann 77 

Squealing  Alex 95 

Prince  of  Orange 101 


TAILINGS 

BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT  WILSON. 


TAILINGS. 


Vohlmer  stood  listlessly  in  the  cabin  door  shad 
ing  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  He  was  not  looking 
at  anything  in  particular.  The  scene  was  too  fa 
miliar  to  awaken  conscious  interest. 

Each  day  for  forty  years  his  gaze  had  turned  up 
ward  to  that  small  patch  of  deep-blue  sky,  outlined 
by  the  same  grim  mountains.  The  pine  trees  that 
waved  their  boughs  in  friendly  greeting  had  been 
sighing  in  sympathy  with  him  for  forty  summers 
and  winters,  and  the  gulch — ah!  but  the  gulch  had 
changed.  The  old  man's  eyes  never  failed  to  kin 
dle  as  his  glance  followed  up  and  down  that  long 
white  line  of  tailings.  The  broad  bed  of  gleaming 
stones  embodied  all  that  this  world  had  held  of 
joy  or  sorrow  for  nearly  one-half  of  his  life.  No 
wonder  that  the  light  in  his  eyes  changed,  and  that 
his  mind  became  suddenly  active  whenever  he 
looked  that  way. 

(9)  . 


'l(f  TAILINGS. 

His  fancy  pictured  the  gulch  as  he  first  had 
known  it.  Then,  instead  of  the  long,  hoary  line  of 
smooth,  hare  stones,  a  clear,  sparkling  stream  had 
gurgled  "between  ferny  hanks  that  spread  away  into 
flowery  hillsides,  undefiled  hy  dumps  of  harren 
rock,  yawning  shafts  and  wide-mouthed  tunnels — 
unmistakable  scars  left  by  the  miner's  unerring 
shovel-thrusts. 

As  he  stands  dreamily  looking,  Vohlmer  sees 
the  camp  spring  into  existence  like  a  crop  of  mush 
rooms.  The  tents  and  cabins,  shelved  grotesquely 
on  the  precipitous  mountain  sides,  seem  keeping  a 
watchful  eye  on  proceedings  in  the  gulch  below. 

The  eager  throng  were  searching  for  the  yellow 
treasure  that  had  lured  them  across  desert  and 
ocean  to  this  fair  land  of  the  Golden  West.  Most 
earnest  of  them  all  was  the  brave  young  German 
who  had  left  home  and  friends  and  Fatherland 
to  gain  the  fortune  that  this  land  of  plenty  offered 
so  enticingly  to  all.  His  lithe  limbs  knew  no  fa 
tigue,  his  hopeful  heart  no  disappointment.  Early 
and  late  he  labored,  but  to  see  each  day  close  with 
the  fortune  still  in  the  tomorrow.  Tomorrow  al 
ways  stood  before  him  with  its  bright  halo  of  sue- 


TAILINGS.  11 

cess.  Never  in  the  least  did  he  doubt  the  awaiting 
treasure.  Yes,  surely,  he  would  strike  it  tomor 
row;  then  he  would  write  home  and  tell  the  loved 
ones  of  his  great  luck,  and  soon  he  would  follow 
with  enough  for  them  all.  Oh,  the  never-ending 
bliss  that  would  come  with  the  fortune  of  tomor 
row  was  entirely  past  telling.  Only  those  who  live 
such  dream  lives  know  the  bliss  that  may  be  en 
joyed  with  nothing. 

The  tomorrows  grew  to  months,  and  then  to 
years,  but  the  letter  home  still  remained  unwritten. 
The  crowd  in  the  gulch  grew  thinner,  and  one 
after  another  the  tents  and  cabins  vanished  as  sud 
denly  and  mysteriously  as  they  came,  leaving  only 
the  mutilation  which  the  gulch  must  carry  for- 
evermore.  It  was  as  if  the  flesh  had  been  stripped 
off  and  the  naked  bones  left  bleaching  in  the  sun. 
The  little  stream,  as  if  ashamed,  sank  its  muddy 
waters  out  of  sight  beneath  that  dreary  waste  of 
bare  white  stones. 

Finally,  the  solitary  occupant  of  the  wee  cabin, 
stuck  like  a  swallow's  nest  against  the  grim  moun 
tain  side,  was  all  that  was  left  of  the  "City  of 
Middle  Bar."  Friends  and  Fatherland  became  a 


12  TAILINGS. 

dim  and  shadowy  remembrance.  The  cabin  grew 
dark  and  mossy,  until  it  seemed  a  part  of  the  moun 
tain  itself,  and  the  gulch,  with  its  serpentine  bed 
of  rounded  stones,  appeared  to  have  aged  in  sym 
pathy  with  its  hoary  inhabitant,  whose  figure  had 
become  stooped  from  long  years  of  devotion  to  his 
pick  and  shovel — a  devotion  rewarded  only  by  a 
most  frugal  subsistence.  The  bushy  hair  and 
beard  framed  a  face  beautiful  in  its  expression  of 
patient  hopefulness.  The  busy  world  with  its  har 
rowing  competition  and  conflicting  struggles  was 
to  him  as  remote  as  the  planets  that  tracked  his 
tiny  sky. 

Still  standing  in  the  doorway  gazing  idly  about, 
Vohlmer  said  reflectively,  "I  will  now  go  to  town. 
There  is  bacon  to  get,  and  that  scoundrel  shovel 
has  played  out  on  me,  and  now  I  must  buy  a  new 
one  again." 

Vohlmer  was  always  at  war  with  his  shovel.  That 
faithful  article  received  never-ending  reproaches 
for  having  sacrificed  youth  and  vigor  in  fidelity  to 
the  interests  of  its  master. 

It  was  Saturday  morning,  the  forenoon  of  which 
was  always  devoted  to  housekeeping  duties,  and 


TAILINGS.  13 

the  afternoon  to  the  trip  to  town  for  the  weekly 
paper,  and  to  make  whatever  purchases  were  neces 
sary.  He  never  patronized  the  store  which  was 
down  on  the  river  but  half  a  mile  from  his  cabin. 

"It  is  a  regular  hell-trap,"  he  would  say.  "On 
one  side  is  groceries  and  everything  what  a  person 
needs,  and  on  the  other  side  is  those  gamblers 
around  that  table  and  drinking  liquor  at  that  bar. 
A  man  goes  to  buy  a  paper  of  tea  and  come  back 
quick  for  supper,  but  first  he  stops  to  look  at  that 
game,  just  to  see  which  way  it  goes,  then  he  takes 
a  hand,  and  next  thing  he  knows  his  head  is  all 
swelled  up  and  his  pockets  flat  down." 

So  Yohlmer  bought  his  tea  in  town  where  a 
brick  wall  lay  between  groceries  and  liquor. 

After  remarking  that  he  would  go  to  town,  the 
old  man  looked  about  to  see  if  all  was  in  order. 
The  disgraced  shovel  stood  in  the  corner  with  a 
pathetic  lean  toward  the  pick  in  silent  appeal  for 
sympathy.  On  the  bushes  outside,  the  freshly 
washed  jumper  and  socks  were  spread  to  dry.  Over 
a  bed  of  smoldering  coals  on  the  hearth  sprawled 
the  funny  three-legged  Dutch  oven  in  which  was 
baking  the  round  loaf  of  bread,  mysteriously 


14  TAILINGS. 

evolved  from  a  small  lump  of  sour  dough  saved 
from  last  week's  baking  and  tucked  in  the  flour 
sack  for  safe-keeping.  On  the  rough  pine  bunk, 
where  only  a  straw  mattress  saved  the  occupant 
from  dropping  through  the  cracks  and  spending 
his  leisure  in  gathering  his  bones,  the  blankets 
were  neatly  spread,  and  the  stiff  hair  pillow,  in  its 
calico  slip,  stood  against  the  headboard  in  prim  de 
fiance  of  luxury  or  comfort.  The  pepper-sauce 
bottle  guarded  the  line  of  articles  arranged  along 
the  back  of  the  small  square  table  that  served  as 
cupboard,  sideboard  and  banquet  table.  Though 
the  whole  interior  was  of  crudest  sort,  aged  and 
weather-marked  by  years  of  service,  there  was  a 
tidy  and  wholesome  air  about  everything. 

During  the  many  years  of  life  in  the  gulch,  the 
monotonous  routine  had  been  broken  but  once. 
That  was  when  Katy  and  her  brother  came  twice 
a  week  from  over  the  hill  to  take  German  lessons. 
The  sun  seemed  to  shine  brighter  on  the  days  of 
their  coming,  and  a  warmth,  such  as  it  had  not 
felt  for  years,  glowed  in  the  old  man's  heart.  Long 
before  the  time  for  their  appearance,  Vohlmer 
would  be  in  the  doorway,  looking  eagerly  along 


TAILINGS.  15 

the  trail  to  see  if  they  were  coming,  and  the  chil 
dren  were  always  sure  to  find  him  standing  there 
when  they  reached  the  hilltop,  from  which  point 
they  never  failed  to  shout  a  vociferous  greeting 
and  to  fling  their  banners  to  the  breeze,  as  Jack 
expressed  it;  the  banners  consisting  of  numerous 
German  exercises  and  something  in  a  tin  pail 
which  Katy  was  sure  to  be  carrying  to  her  friend. 
"Here  is  a  pail  of  buttermilk,"  she  would  say,  on 
reaching  the  cabin,  or,  "I  brought  you  a  pat  of 
butter,  Vohlmer.  Mama  churned  today." 

Vohlmer  would  beamingly  reply,  as  he  carefully 
wiped  out  the  pail  and  set  it  on  the  table  ready 
for  the  next  donation,  "Oh  Katy,  you  always  bring 
me  something  nice.  I  think  you  are  my  good 
angel." 

"I'm  afraid  that  I  could  never  live  up  to  being 
an  angel,  but  I  am  glad  that  you  like  the  things, 
and  you  are  always  making  people  happy  by  saying 
something  good  of  them."  Here  Katy  cast  a  re 
proachful  glance  at  Jack,  who  sat  snickering  on 
the  bench.  On  the  way,  Katy  had  expostulated 
with  her  brother  because  of  the  slovenly  appear 
ance  of  his  exercises. 


16  TAI LINOS. 

"Vohlmer  will  not  like  it,"  she  urged. 

"I  don't  care  whether  he  likes  it  or  not,"  re 
torted  Jack.  "A  fellow  can't  fuss  all  day  over  a 
stupid  old  German  lesson,  just  to  please  that  old- 
maid  man." 

"Shame!"  Katy  exclaimed,  and  walked  on  in  in 
dignant  silence,  to  the  great  amusement  of  Jack, 
who  always  rejoiced  in  arousing  the  ire  of  his  gen 
tle  sister. 

They  would  sit  on  the  bench  like  three  children, 
Vohlmer  in  the  middle,  Katy  on  one  side  and  Jack 
on  the  other. 

"Oh  Katy,  you  have  the  wrong  words  here," 
the  simple-hearted  teacher  would  say.  "That  does 
not  make  sense;  just  hear  what  it  says." 

Then  they  would  all  laugh  together,  and  while 
Katy  was  making  sense,  he  would  point  out  still 
greater  deformities  in  Jack's  sentences. 

But  Katy  and  her  brother  had  gone  away  to 
school,  and  the  brief  light  made  by  their  visits 
had  gone  out. 

Satisfied  that  everything  was  in  order,  Vohl 
mer  started  for  town,  equipped  with  his  gnarly 
manzanita  cane  and  the  flour-sack  in  which  to  car 
ry  his  purchases. 


TAILINGS.  17 

It  was  four  miles  by  the  trail  to  town,  all  steep 
traveling,  either  up  hill  or  down,  but  he  did  not 
mind  that;  he  was  so  used  to  hills  that  it  is  doubt 
ful  if  he  would  know  how  to  behave  on  level 
ground.  His  world  was  made  entirely  of  moun 
tains,  and  now,  as  he  picked  his  way  along  the 
narrow  path,  the  charm  of  a  perfect  California!!. 
December  day  transformed  all  about  him  into  a 
bewitching  fairyland.  Bathed  in  the  soft,  warm 
sunshine  and  pure,  invigorating  air,  the  mere  fact 
of  living  became  an  ecstasy.  Never  did  this  simple 
lover  of  nature  fail  to  enjoy  in  fullest  measure 
the  beauty  and  grandeur  spread  so  lavishly  about 
him.  No  other  pines  ever  murmured  such  soft,  sweet 
music;  no  other  rocks  were  carved  into  such  fan 
tastic  forms — castles  with  turrets  piercing  the  sky; 
armies  mounted  and  equipped  for  war;  beasts  and 
bogies  from  dead  and  gone  eras,  needing  only 
imagination's  mystic  wand  to  stir  all  into  life  and 
action. 

"And  here  is  a  package  for  you,"  added  the  post 
master,  as  Vohlmer  reached  in  the  stuffy  postoffice 
window  for  his  paper. 

"A  package?  for  me?"  he  answered,  in  a  dazed 
and  incredulous  manner. 


18  TAILINGS. 

"Yes,  for  you/'  snapped  the  crabbed  postmaster. 
The  government  did  not  pay  him  to  be  civil  to 
Vohlmer — their  politics  differed. 

"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  the  old  man  in 
sisted.  "No  one  would  send  me  a  package.  It 
is  for  some  one  else." 

"There's  no  mistake  about  it,"  said  the  post 
master.  "No  one  else  has  such  a  fool  name.  Why 
don't  you  take  it,  and  not  stand  there  looking  like 
an  idiot?" 

Vohlmer  reached  for  the  package,  and  sure 
enough,  it  was  plainly  addressed  to  Mr.  Gerhard 
Vohlmer,  Middle  Bar,  California. 

"I  wonder  what  it  is?"  he  said,  as  he  turned  it 
over  and  over  in  a  bewildered  way. 

"Why  don't  you  open  it  and  find  out?"  asked  the 
postmaster,  in  a  more  affable  tone,  his  curiosity 
overcoming  his  bad  manners. 

But  Vohlmer  did  not  open  it.  He  kept  on  turn 
ing  it  about  reverently  and  repeating  to  himself, 
"I  wonder  what  it  is,  and  who  could  have  sent  mo 
a  package?" 

The  postmaster  firmly  declares  that  if  other  ap 
plicants  for  mail  had  not  driven  Vohlmer  from  the 


TAILINGS.  19 

window  "the  old  fool  would  be  standing  there  to 
this  very  day,  wondering  who  sent  him  his  pack 
age,  and  what  was  in  it." 

His  small  nature  could  not  conceive  how  such 
an  ordinary  event  as  the  receipt  of  a  little  bundle 
through  the  postoffice  could  cause  a  complete  met 
amorphosis  in  a  person's  life.  His  sterile  soul  was 
not  susceptible  to  the  harvest  that  a  small  seed  of 
love  could  yield  in  a  heart  fallowed  by  forty  years 
of  abstinence  from  human  affection. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  inquired  the  stranger  who 
had  driven  Yohlmer  from  the  window. 

"Oh,  that's  the  Dutchman  that  lives  down  at 
Middle  Bar,"  replied  the  town  gossip.  "Went 
there  in  '49  an's  ben  minin'  'roun'  them  hills  ever 
since,  till  he's  turned  into  reg'lar  fossil." 

"Turned  into  a  'tarnal  old  fool,  I  say,"  added  the 
postmaster.  "When  I  handed  him  a  package  a 
while  ago,  he  just  stood  there  turnin'  it  'round  and 
'round  and  mumblin'  to  himself,  wonderin'  what 
it  was  and  who  sent  it  to  him.  Didn't  have  sense 
'nough  to  open  it  and  see.  Great  Scott!  I  felt 
like  punchin'  'im," 


20  TAILINGS. 

"Well,"  continued  the  gossip,  "it's  funny  'bout 
them  old  fellers.  There's  lots  of  um  scattered 
round  here  'mong  the  hills.  They're  sort  o'  left 
over  from  the  old  minin'  days.  Never  had  sense 
'nough  to  quit.  This  here  one's  a  sample. 

"Always  was  queer.  Why,  when  we  wus  all 
workin'  down  there  together  in  '50,  he  just  slaved 
away  as  if  his  life  depended  on  it.  Couldn't  hire 
'im  to  take  a  drink,  an'  'e  wouldn't  play  a  game 
o'  cards  or  do  nothing  that  makes  life  worth  livin\ 
He  thinks  to  this  day  that  Vs  goin'  to  strike  it 
in  them  good-fur-nothin'  diggin's." 

"Is  he  married?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Married !"  Here  the  gossip's  mirth  overcame  his 
talking  power  for  some  time. 

"Married!  Well,  that's  too  good!  What  in  tar 
nation  thunder  would  he  marry  down  there  in 
that  gulch  ?  You  must  think  women  grow  on  man- 
zanita  bushes.  He  never  goes  nowhere,  'cept  tu 
town  for  his  grub  an'  paper,  an'  'e  gets  out  quick's 
'e  can,  like  town  folks  had  some  ketchin'  disease 
that  he'd  take  if  'e  stayed  'mong  um." 

"I'll  never  furgit  one  time  Jim  Albright  wus 
sick,  an'  Vohlmer  set  up  with  'm  all  night.  Early 


TAILINGS.  21 

in  the  evenin'  several  uv  us  wus  setting  'round  the 
cabin  sympathizin'  with  Jim.  He  had  cholera  mor- 
bus  an'  wus  in  turrible  agony.  As  soon  as  Vohl- 
mer  come,  he  began  fussin'  'roun'  doin'  things; 
slung  the  door  open  to  let  in  fresh  air,  an'  'e  told 
us  we'd  kill  Jim  if  we  didn't  quit  dosin'  'im  with 
whisky  —  said  what  Jim  needed  wus  a  poultice. 
That  impressed  us  a  heap;  we  all  had  rem'nis- 
cences  uv  poultices.  We  sat  'roun'  with  great  ex 
pectations,  'lottin'  on  somethin'  big  an'  soft  and 
smelly,  when  what  did  that  feller  do  but  just  take 
a  little  old  rag,  an'  dip  it  in  water,  an'  put  it  on 
Jim's  stomick  with  an  old  flannel  shirt  on  top  uv 
it.  Then  'e  covered  'im  up  tight  an'  told  'im  to 
keep  still.  Well,  we  just  sneaked  out,  one  by 
one,  an'  went  down  tu  the  store,  an'  it  took  us 
till  most  mornin'  to  work  off  the  hilarity  uv  that 
poultice. 

"When  the  diggin's  played  out  an'  the  men  wus 
all  leavin'  Vohlmer  pursisted  in  stayin',  though 
we  tried  our  best  tu  have  'im  go  with  us  to  some 
new  place,  but  'e  said  no,  'e'd  stay  a  while  longer 
an'  that  we'd  find  just  as  much  there  as  any  place 
if  we'd  just  stick  to  it.  Nothin'  was  gained  by 


22 


TAILINGS. 


bobbin'  roun'  frum  place  to  place.  Well,  'e  hain't 
bobbed  none,  but  I'll  bet  'e  wishes  'e  had  many 
a  time." 

"Did  the  men  who  left  the  diggings  strike  it  in 
the  other  places?"  questioned  the  stranger. 

The  gossip  stretched  himself  and  began  to  edge 
toward  the  door. 

"Well,  no,  not  to  'mount  to  nothin',  but  we 
didn't  stay  in  a  gulch  till  we  turned  into  a  fossil." 

"Preferred  to  do  it  in  town,"  reflected  the 
stranger,  as  he  watched  the  gossip  saunter  up  the 
street  and  settle  himself  in  a  vacant  chair  on  the 
saloon  porch  —  a  self -organized  ways  and  means 
committee  to  dispose  of  the  business  of  the  town. 

Vohlmer  on  turning  from  the  postoffice  window 
had  clutched  his  package  tightly  to  himself 
through  an  instinctive  fear  that  it  might  in  some 
way  be  spirited  away.  In  his  eyes  was  that  far- 
off  look  that  betrayed  oblivion  to  all  surroundings. 
He  neither  heard  nor  saw,  and  his  feet  seemed  not 
to  touch  the  earth.  It  was  as  if  his  mind  had  en 
tirely  parted  company  from  the  body,  leaving  the 
latter  But  a  mere  thing  mechanically  covering  the 
distance  from  force  of  habit. 


TAILINGS.  23 

Friendly  greetings  were  entirely  unnoticed.  To 
the  old  man,  as  he  hastened  on,  there  was  no 
ground  beneath  him,  there  were  no  people  passing. 
Neither  rocks  nor  trees  nor  hills  obstructed  that 
far-off  gaze.  No  streams  tumbled  their  noisy  waters 
down  the  gulches.  The  whole  world  might  have 
appeared  before  him  clamoring  for  notice,  but  it 
must  have  gone  again  ungratified.  He  did  not 
know  when  he  was  driven  from  the  trail  by  San- 
tho's  train  of  broadly  packed  wood  donkeys. 
Neither  did  he  hear  Santho's  friendly  salute,  nor 
the  maledictions  that  followed  when  the  hot  tem 
pered  vendor  of  wood  found  himself  standing  un 
heeded;  and  when  the  sleepy  cows,  that  Ben  Thomas 
was  driving  leisurely  homeward,  again  drove  him 
to  one  side,  he  left  the  astonished  Ben  staring  after 
him  in  mute  Dismay  at  receiving  not  the  slightest 
response  to  his  cheery  "Good-day!"  and  though 
both  Ben  and  the  cows  stood  in  the  trail  deliber 
ating  for  a  long  time,  Vohlmer's  behavior  still  re 
mained  a  mystery. 

At  last  the  little  cabin  in  the  gulch  is  reached, 
and  seated  at  the  table  Yohlmer  again  turns  his 
package  over  and  over  in  a  tender,  reverent  way, 


24  TAILINGS. 

and  repeats  to  himself,  "I  wonder  what  it  is  and 
who  could  have  sent  me  a  package?" 

He  hesitated  to  open  it,  through  a  vague  dread 
that  the  inside  might  prove  to  be  nothing  after  all. 
The  experience  of  so  many  empty  tomorrows  had 
developed  an  unconscious  expectation  of  fruitless 
reward. 

Finally,  with  trembling  fingers,  he  untied  the 
string,  and  slowly  removed  the  paper,  stopping 
after  the  accomplishment  of  each  to  ask  again  the 
same  oft-repeated  questions. 

Inside  the  paper  is  a  neat,  white  pasteboard  box, 
and  as  he  holds  it  in  his  hands,  his  heart  beats  as 
if  a  mill-stamp  were  vigorously  at  work  inside  of 
him.  The  trembling  increases  so  that  the  pepper- 
sauce  bottle  is  on  the  verge  of  losing  its  dignity. 

What  floods  of  emotion  were  crowded  into  the 
short  interval  that  elapsed  while  he  hesitated  in 
uncovering  the  box.  The  pent-in  feelings  of  forty 
years  were  suddenly  loosed  and  seemed  seeking 
vent  in  wild  torrents  through  every  atom  of  his 
being.  He  was  torn  by  conflicting  impulses.  He 
longed  to  plunge  into  the  contents  of  the  box,  but 
something  held  him  back.  He  wanted  to  see  in- 


TAILINGS.  25 

stantly  what  was  there,  but  the  same  something 
commanded  him  to  wait.  Though  the  time  in  real 
ity  was  so  very  short,  there  seemed  to  be  more 
crowded  into  it  than  in  all  of  the  preceding  forty 
years. 

When  at  last  the  lid  was  lifted,  there  lay  on  the 
pink  tissue  paper  a  card  on  which  was  written,  "A 
very  Merry  Christmas  to  Vohlmer,  from  Katy." 
Great  tears  rolled  slowly  down  his  cheeks  as  he  held 
the  card  before  him.  It  had  been  so  long  since 
any  friendly  reminder  of  Christmas  had  come  his 
way  that  the  day  had  ceased  to  be  different  from 
any  other.  Now  his  thoughts  traveled  back  over 
the  long,  wasted  years  of  his  lonely  life  to  the 
happy  holiday  times  in  Fatherland,  when  the  dear 
ones  wished  him  "Merry  Christmas,"  and  there 
were  joyous  gatherings  and  loving  tokens.  His 
head  went  down  into  his  arms  and  great  sobs  shook 
the  old  man's  frame. 

Reverently  he  unwound  the  tissue  paper  from 
the  two  pairs  of  soft,  warm  woolen  socks  that  Katy 
knew  would  be  comfortable  during  the  winter 
weather.  With  the  tears  still  flowing,  he  turns 
them  about,  and  feels  of  them  caressingly,  until 


26  TAILINGS. 

they  seemed  endowed  with  a  hundred  supernatural 
qualities.  They  are  a  something  sacred  around 
which  all  future  thoughts  shall  cluster.  Though 
he  returns  them  carefully  to  the  box,  he  keeps 
them  near  "by  so  that  he  can  take  them  out  at  in 
tervals  during  the  preparation  of  his  simple  supper. 

From  this  time  life  begins  all  over  again,  and 
everything  dates  either  so  long  before,  or  so  long 
after,  the  time  that  Katy's  present  came.  After 
these  long  years  of  isolation  from  friends  and  kin 
dred,  the  small  fact  that  someone  thought  enough 
of  him  to  send  a  present  to  him  was  enough  of  hap 
piness  to  brighten  the  remainder  of  his  life. 

He  never  tired  of  telling  how  he  went  to  town 
and  found  a  package  in  the  postomce  from  Katy. 
When  acquaintances  dropped  in  for  a  chat,  he 
would  always  show  his  socks,  no  matter  how  often 
the  same  guest  had  before  admired  them  or  sound 
ed  their  praises  in  glowing  terms.  They  must  al 
ways  be  felt  of,  and  their  warmth  and  softness 
duly  admired. 

"One  could  not  be  cold  with  those,"  he  would 
always  add,  as  he  put  away  his  treasure  to  await 
the  coming  of  the  next  visitor;  and  though  the 


TAILINGS.  27 

were  never  degraded  by  the  use  to  which  or 
dinary  foot-apparel  is  destined,  they  really  kept  the 
old  man  warm  with  a  glow  that  pervaded  his  whole 
being. 


NUGGETS 

BY 

J.  L.  SARGENT. 


NUGGETS. 


Time  went  on;  the  old  gray  cabin  nestling 
among  the  grim,  gray  boulders  grew  grayer  still. 

Vohlmer's  back  grew  a  little  more  stooped,  and 
his  step  more  feeble  as  the  monotonous  years  went 
by,  but  the  kindly  old  eyes  still  held  their  trusting 
light,  and  that  superb,  pathetic  faith  in  the  day  he 
was  to  "strike  it"  never  faltered  for  a  moment. 

The  gold  in  the  gulch  grew  scarcer,  and  at  last, 
when  even  Ms  patience  could  not  extract  enough 
from  the  wornout  tailings  for  his  simple  needs, 
something  desperate  had  to  be  done. 

"I  shall  make  me  a  garden,"  said  Vohlmer,  "and 
those  villain  nuggets  I  shall  hunt  in  the  winter 
time,  when  the  water  is  plenty,  and  I  have  plenty 
of  grub  in  the  house  from  the  garden." 

With  method  in  this,  as  in  all  else  he  did,  the 
old  man,  when  he  turned  to  agriculture,  home- 
steaded  eighty  acres  of  the  rough  hill-land  around 
(31) 


32  NUGGETS. 

the  little  cabin,  and  devoted  all  his  waning  energy 
in  the  spring  and  summer  to  his  garden. 

A  famous  garden  he  made.  Not  even  the  Italian 
market  gardener  could  equal  the  quantity  or  the 
quality  of  his  vegetables,  and  it  was  all  owing  to 
the  moon.  At  a  certain  time  of  the  moon  certain 
things  were  planted,  at  another  time,  other  things; 
unremitting  care  and  ceaseless  attention,  they  were 
a  matter  of  course,  and  didn't  count — the  moon 
did  the  whole  business. 

But  in  the  winter  time,  when  the  water  was 
plenty,  and  the  little  storehouse  full  of  the  gar 
den's  fruits — ah!  that  was  the  season.  With  new 
vitality  and  an  appetite  for  his  chosen  work  made 
keen  by  long  abstinence,  Vohlmer  fell  upon  his 
ruining  tools;  even  his  shovel  was  eulogized  instead 
of  receiving  its  customary  anathema,  and  every 
morning,  rain  or  frost,  cloud  or  sunshine,  saw  the 
bent  old  form  toiling  in  the  ground  sluice,  and 
every  Saturday  heard  the  scratch  of  his  scraper 
and  the  cheery  shake  of  his  rocker  as  the  weekly 
clean-up  was  made.  Once  the  nuggets  of  his  dreams 
took  visible  form;  in  a  forgotten  crevice,  the 
scraper  brought  out  two,  three,  and  even  four  dol- 


NUGGETS-  33 

lar  pieces.  Few  they  were,  though,  and  the  cleanup 
that  week,  while  exceptionally  good,  was  less  than 
an  ounce.  The  nuggets  became  dreams  once  more 
and  the  grim  old  ghost  of  despair  began  to  hover, 
at  times,  just  above  the  rocky  brow  of  the  canon. 

One  day  in  March,  when  all  the  plants  and  buds 
and  grasses  in  the  hills  were  waking  and  work 
ing  to  make  up  for  their  winter  sloth,  Santho,  the 
wood-peddler,  brought  news  of  Katy's  death  in 
far-off  Santa  Clara.  "My  Katrina,  dead!  It  can 
not  be  so/'  While,  with  big  tears  coursing  down 
the  wrinkled,  weather-seamed  cheeks,  he  crept 
slowly  out  of  the  ground-sluice  and  up  to  the 
cabin. 

Santho,  with  a  grunt,  sat  on  the  bank  and  medi 
tatively  rolled  a  cigarette;  he  had  never  seen  a  man 
take  news  in  just  that  way,  and  couldn't  under 
stand.  Smoking  brought  enlightenment,  and,  the 
cigarette  finished,  with  a  muttered  "Pobre  hom- 
bre!"  the  Mexican  rose  to  collect  his  scattered  bur 
ros. 

Trouble  sat  lightly  upon  Santho;  tomorrow 
would  be  another  day,  and  who  knows  what 
manana  may  bring  forth ! 


34  NUGGETS. 

Vohlmer  did  not  know,  himself,  at  first  how 
great  his  trouble  was.  The  memory  of  the  bright- 
faced  girl  had  grown  a  part  of  his  life,  and  in  a 
vague,  unreasoning  way,  the  day  he  should  strike 
it  rich  had  become  associated  with  his  Christmas 
gift  and  its  donor  until,  in  his  dreaming  brain, 
nuggets,  gowns  of  silk,  jewels  of  price  and  gems 
of  the  purest,  all  for  Katy,  were  woven  together 
with  so  strong  a  web  of  love,  that  the  rending  of  it 
very  nearly  caused  the  old  man's  death.  For  weeks 
after,  he  moped  about  the  cabin,  moving  only 
when  compelled  to,  till  at  last  the  great  heart  and 
steadfast  faith  wakened  once  more,  and  he  began 
again  the  fight,  for  bare  existence  this  time. 

"Ach  Gott!"  he  said,  "It  is  not  right,  this  world, 
but  I  shall  go  on;  I  shall  live  from  my  garden,  and 
those  damned  nuggets  may  stay  in  the  gulch  if 
they  like.  It  may  be  there  is  a  Heaven,  and  my 
Katrina  shall  be  there  when  I  come." 

Four  years  went  by,  varied  in  monotony  only  by 
the  changing  seasons.  The  gulch  was  worked  no 
more,  the  little  garden  patch  and  vineyard  gave 
their  fruits  more  grudgingly  each  year,  taxes  were 
unpaid,  the  old  man's  clothes  were  a  mass  of 


NUGGETS.  35 

patches,  and,  to  make  bad  matters  worse,  Jack, 
Katy's  brother,  was  back  on  a  visit.  He  had  been 
back  before,  had  Jack,  and  Vohlmer  had  con 
ceived  no  very  high  opinion  of  him. 

He  went  to  college  and  came  back  disreputable; 
reformed,  was  elected  to  the  Assembly,  and  came 
back  more  disreputable;  went  away  again  and  came 
back;  reformed  for  good,  he  said,  but  Vohlmer 
doubted. 

"So,"  he  mused,  "Jack  does  not  drink  now,  but 
that  drink  devil,  one  can  never  tell  what  it  shall 
do.  If  it  had  been  him,  the  rascal,  and  not  my 
Katrina.  Ach!  that  is  not  good  of  me.  One  thing 
he  knows,  the  scoundrel.  He  has  more  mining 
in  his  head  than  all  the  men  in  Calaveras  county; 
he  shall  smell  the  gold,  the  rascal." 

He  was  right  about  the  mining.  Jack  did  know 
it,  and  knew  it  better  than  many  a  man  knows  his 
alphabet.  Born  and  bred  in  the  camps,  the  passion 
for  it  was  in  his  bones,  and  a  large  bump  of  in- 
quisitiveness  made  him  eagerly  devour  any  infor 
mation  attainable.  Once  he  knew  a  thing,  he 
knew  it  always.  A  keen  observer,  he  read  the 
rocks  and  hills  as  a  student  reads  an  open  book, 


36  NUGGETS. 

and  no  man  in  all  the  Sierras  could  tell  as  much 
about  a  quartz  stringer  or  a  ravine  with  as  little 
work  as  Jack. 

Pocket-hunting  was  his  hobby,  and  on  the  even 
ing  of  the  fifth  day  of  his  visit,  he  came  into  the 
cabin,  tired,  dirty,  and  brimful  of  enthusiasm. 

"I  say,  Vohlmer,"  he  drawled,  "What  do  you 
think  of  this?"  and  shoved  a  pan  containing  a  few 
colors  on  the  table,  then  proceeded  with  a  most 
fantastic  war-dance  on  the  dirt  floor. 

"Gott  in  Himmel!"  muttered  Vohlmer,  "the 
devil  shall  be  drunk  again.  Sooner  would  I  have 
ten  of  those  wild  bob-tailed  cats  in  my  cabin  than 
this  animal  drunk." 

"Nary  drunk,  Vohlmer,  never  again;  but  you 
and  I  will  have  the  price  of  a  thousand  drunks 
before  many  moons,  for  those  miserable  specks,  as 
you  call  'em,  never  lie.  Now,  see  here,  don't  think 
I'm  crazy;  you  know  I  know  my  business;  just 
you  keep  that  orifice  in  your  countenance  closed 
and  listen  to  me."  With  wondering  eyes  and  many 
grumbling  ejaculations,  the  old  man  sat  and  pre 
pared  to  listen,  half  fearful  of  some  practical  joke, 
and  half  hoping  for  a  tale  of  some  pocket  that 


NUGGETS.  37 

would  fill  his  needs,  or  at  least  pay  the  taxes.  "You 
know,  Vohlmer,  or  rather  you  don't  know,"  Jack 
began,  "that  the  Midland  vein  runs  through  this 
grasshopper  ranche  of  yours;  keep  still;  it  is  true 
that  the  Midland  mine  is  six  miles  away,  but  the 
vein  runs  right  straight  here  all  the  same.  No, 
we  won't  argue  the  matter;  I  know  the  vein  is 
here  and  that  is  enough." 

"You  know  that  in  the  Midland  the  vein  is  very 
rich  in  spots,  sponge  gold — Sabe?  Eeally,  it  is 
not  in  the  vein,  but  in  streaks  of  mixed  spar  and 
quartz  in  the  foot-wall,  sometimes  an  open  seam 
filled  with  masses  of  gold  that  look  huge,  but  are 
just  like  a  sponge  and  will  mash  up  just  the  same — 
Eh?  What?  You  found  nuggets  like  that  in  a 
crevice  in  the  gulch,  and  you  remember  the  exact 
spot?  Well,  you're  a  nice  old  man,  Yohlmer,  if 
you  do  have  fits.  You've  saved  me  about  four 
days'  work — and  I  don't  like  work.  Oh,  you  knew 
that  before,  did  you?  Well,  to  resume  the  thread 
of  our  narrative,  as  the  poet  hath  it,  I'd  have  found 
that  crevice,  with  some  work,  for  those  colors  in 
the  pan  are  that  same  sponge  gold;  as  it  is,  the  la 
bor  is  saved,  and  we'll  dig  out  the  spondulia  to 
morrow.  Let's  go  to  bed." 


38  NUGGETS. 

The  morning  saw  the  ill-assorted  pair  hard  at 
work  in  the  gulch.  Vohlmer  scented  the  nuggets 
of  his  dreams  and  Jack  a  stake  that  would  give 
him,,  as  he  expressed  it,  "a  boost  along  the  straight 
and  narrow  trail  of  righteousness." 

Soon  it  became  plain  that  other  help  would  be 
needed,  the  old  man  being  utterly  unable  to  stand 
the  wearing  work,  and  the  next  day  saw  Santho 
in  his  place. 

"You  cook,  Vohlmer/'  advised  Jack.  "Santho 
and  I  will  attend  to  this  end  of  it.  Besides,  you 
know,  we  can  trust  the  Mexican,  and  we'll  need 
some  one  we  can  trust  before  we're  done." 

The  crevice  paid— slowly  at  first,  for  a  "busted 
community"  could  not  do  things  in  a  hurry,  and 
many  things  were  needed  to  break  the  hard  bed 
rock. 

But  the  little  yellow  specks  came,  and  with  them 
came  drills,  hammers  and  dynamite;  also  grub  and 
a  tax  receipt. 

Then  work  began  in  earnest  and  as  the  roar  of 
the  exploding  blasts  rumbled  and  died  away  in 
ever-lessening  murmurs  among  the  old  gray  hills, 
spectators  came  to  gape,  to  inquire,  and  to  be  told 


NUGGETS.  39 

by  the  ever-truthful  Jack  that  Vohlmer,  Santho 
&  Co.  were  sinking  a  well,  which,  when  deep 
enough,  they  intended  to  pull  up  by  the  roots,  cut 
into  the  proper  size  and  sell  for  postholes  to  any 
farmer  who  might  chance  to  need  them. 

Strikes  like  that  cannot  be  kept  secret  forever, 
and  soon  rumors  of  all  sorts  were  flying  on  unreli 
able  wings  through  the  canons  and  about  the 
camps. 

A  council  of  war  was  held  in  Mokelumne  Hill 
one  night.  Claim-jumpers,  of  course.  The  mat 
ter  had  been  discussed  pro  and  con.  for  days,  till 
finally,  by  tacit  consent,  it  was  left  to  Jim  King, 
gambler,  desperado,  crook,  and  all-round  confi 
dence  man,  to  investigate  and  report.  "Boys,"  re 
ported  the  committee  of  one,  "It's  no  go.  It's 
true  that  the  old  Dutchman,  Jack  Cordelieu  and 
the  greaser  are  taking  out  the  yellow  by  the  bucket 
ful;  I  saw  Jack  yesterday  and  saw  some  of  the 
specimens.  They  beat  anything  I  ever  saw  before, 
but,  my  friends,  they  are  not  for  us;  the  whole 
country  there  is  covered  by  that  damned  Dutch 
man's  agricultural  patent,  and  us  poor  miners  are 
swindled  once  more  by  the  land-grabbing  for 
eigner." 


40  NUGGETS. 

"Confound  the  patent!"  cried  one.  "Let's  just 
go  and  take  the  place;  run  'em  out  and  be  done 
with  it." 

"Johnson,"  asked  King,  "Do  you  know  Corde- 
lieu  or  the  greaser?  No?  I  thought  not.  The 
runout  business  might  do  with  some  outfits,  but  I, 
for  one,  will  never  try  it  on  this.  Fd  sooner  mon 
key  with  a  circular  saw  than  with  Jack.  He  is  a 
plumb  devil,  and  the  greaser  is  the  fellow  who 
cleaned  out  every  man  in  French  George's  only 
last  year;  broke  George's  back  across  his  knee  and 
threw  him  out  the  window;  while  the  old  Dutchman, 
innocent,  harmless,  and  peaceful  as  he  is,  can  never 
be  scared  the  least  little  bit  from  any  course  he 
thinks  right;  as  I  said  at  first,  boys,  ifs  no  go. 
But—" 

"What?"  yelled  half  the  gang. 

"We  might  buy  it,"  continued  King.  "I  talked 
that  way  to  Jack  to  day,  and  he  half -intimated  it 
was  for  sale." 

The  idea  took,  and  King  was  authorized  to  con 
duct  the  negotiations. 

On  the  very  same  evening,  another  council  of 
war  was  held  in  the  old  gray  cabin,  this  one  with 


NUGGETS.  41 

Mr.  John  Cordelieu  as  chief  exhorter.  "See  here, 
Vohlmer,"  he  began,  when  supper  was  over,  "I 
want  you  to  listen.  Santho  knows  what  I  am  go 
ing  to  say.  Jim  King  was  snooping  around  here 
today,  and,  when  he  and  his  gang  find  out  they 
can't  jump  this  place,  they  will  want  to  "buy;  we'll 
sell." 

"Not  I,"  cried  Vohlmer.  "Shall  I  leave  my 
cabin  and  shall  I  sell  just  when  I  strike  it  rich? 
No,  Jack,  we  shall  not  sell/'  and  Santho  gave  an 
approving  grunt. 

"Now,  will  you  two  dunderheads  listen  to  me?" 
Jack  went  on.  "Here  we  have  Wells-Fargo's  re 
ceipts  for  over  twenty-three  thousand  dollars; 
there's  above  seven  thousand  more  in  the  cabin;  we 
can  get  at  least  twenty  thousand  for  the  hole. 
Don't  sell  your  cabin  or  the  ranche,  Vohlmer,  let 
'em  have  a  claim  off  the  south  end.  What's  more, 
the  streak's  worked  out.  We're  down  over  sixty 
feet  and.  while  there  is  a  good  show  left,  I'll  bet  my 
head  she  pinches  in  less  than  four  feet." 

After  much  more  argument,  Jack's  counsel  pre 
vailed;  the  claim  was  sold,  and  pinched,  a.nd  loud 
was  the  roar  from  the  disappointed  jumpers.  San 
tho  made  a  bee-line  for  Mexico  with  his  money. 


42  NUGGETS. 

Jack  is  superintendent  and  part  owner  of  one  of 
the  best  paying  quartz  mines  on  the  coast. 

While  Vohlmer — Ah!  Vohlmer;  your  dream 
nuggets  came,  old  man;  but,  oh,  the  pity  of  it! 
From  the  old  gray  cabin,  hid  among  the  grim  gray 
hills,  is  going  forth  the  wail  heard  since  men  have 
been,  and  will  be  heard  while  men  are;  the  old 
cry  of  the  lost,  and  the  doubly  pitiful  greeting 
which  meets  the  fickle  jade  when  she  comes — "Too 
late!" 


"I  won  that  string  of  beads."     Page  50. 


A  DIGGER  INJDN 

BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT  WILSON. 


A  DIGGEK  INJUN. 

Mollie  possesses  that  indescribable  charm  which 
immediately  establishes  a  bond  of  good  feeling  be 
tween  herself  and  everyone  with  whom  she  comes 
in  contact.  She  is  bright,  witty,  sparkling. 
There  is  a  ring  in  her  laugh  that  goes  straight  to 
the  heart.  You  feel  happy  in  her  presence.  You 
are  glad  when  she  comes  near  you,  and  sorry  when 
she  goes  away.  You  feel  better  for  even  thinking 
of  her,  and  yet  Mollie  is  wicked — yes,  very,  very 
wicked.  There  is  scarcely  a  vice  in  the  calendar 
that  she  has  not  tested  by  actual  experience. 

Mollie  is  now  past  thirty,  but  she  was  once  six 
teen.  It  was  then  that  a  Carson  Valley  farmer 
discovered  how  altogether  lovely  Mollie  was.  So 
enchanted  was  he  with  her  pretty  ways  that  he  took 
her  to  reign  over  his  sundry  pots  and  kettles,  with 
out  due  formality  of  law,  however. 
(45) 


46  A  DIGGER  INJUN. 

The  new  life  brought  great  happiness  to  the 
pretty  Indian  maid.     She  let  her  hair  grow  long 
and  became  quite  vain  of  the  silky  mass  that  every 
one  so  lavishly  admired.     She  learned  to  sew  and 
cook,  and  took  great  pride  in  being  just  as  much 
like  a  white  woman  as  possible.    She  was  taken  to 
San  Francisco  once,  and  she  is  never  so  eloquent  as 
when  recounting  the  experiences  of  that  journey. 
She  went  as  far  as  Sacramento  on  the  cars,  and  the 
rest  of  the  way  by  boat.     It  was  the  steamer  that 
made  the  first  vivid  impression.     "Big  river,  big, 
big  river,  lots  bigger  than   Carson  river,   and  a 
great,    big   boat   just   like   a   house.     You   walk 
around,  you  eat,  you  sleep,  and  all  the  time  the 
boat    goes    on,    goes    on,  down,  down  the  river. 
Plenty   women,    plenty   men.     Some    talk,    some 
read,  some  gamble  all  same  Injun."     (Mollie  could 
not  conceive  of  card-playing  that  was  not  gam 
bling.)     "All  the  time  the  boat  go  down  the  river. 
Bimeby  everybody  go  to  bed,  boat  go  on  just  the 
same.     When  we  wake  up  in  the  morning,  the  boat 
isn't  going  any  more.     Everybody  goes  off.     We 
are  in  a  big,  big  town,  an'  oh,  lots  of  ships,  and 
big,  big  water  like  Lake  Tahoe.     There  were  so 


A  DIGGER  INJUN.  47 

many  streets,  and  such  pretty  things  in  the  win 
dows.  Everything,  yes,  everything,  and  seemed 
like  everybody,  too.  I  wanted  to  look  at  every 
thing,  and  seemed  like  everybody  wanted  to  look 
at  me.  Every  time  I  stop  to  look,  pretty  quick  a 
whole  lot  of  people  tKere  too.  Ask  me  my  name, 
ask  me  where  I  came  from.  One  man  ask  me  if 
I  was  Spanish  lady.  Pretty  quick  I  had  to  go 
away;  too  many  people  look  at  me  and  talk  to  me. 
Oh,  but  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  look  some  more. 
So  many  things  to  see!" 

This  is  but  a  small  part  of  the  story  of  that 
memorable  journey.  Its  charm  is  lost  without 
Mollie's  bright  face,  her  ringing  laugh,  her  rhyth 
mic  motions,  and  the  musical  intonations  of  her 
voice.  It  is  Mollie,  not  the  story,  that  holds  the 
listener  spellbound. 

One  day  the  Carson  Valley  farmer  decides  to 
take  unto  himself  a  white  wife,  so  the  Indian  wo 
man  is  sent  back  to  her  people.  Poor  Mollie's 
heart  is  broken,  badly  broken,  but  hearts  like  Mol 
lie's  are  soon  mended.  No  sorrow  could  long  keep 
down  that  buoyant  nature.  As  an  effect  of  the 
reactionary  process,  she  gives  herself  entirely  over 


48  A  DIGGER  INJUN. 

to  gaiety.  Not  a  man  of  the  tribe  but  must  suc 
cumb  to  her  enchantment  if  she  chooses  to  bring 
him  under  her  spell.  Mollie  is  pronounced  im 
proper  by  even  the  most  liberal-minded  members 
of  a  society  where  a  moral  code  is  most  conspicu 
ous  by  its  absence. 

In  time,  Mollie  herself  becomes  a  victim,  and  she 
who  has  all  at  her  disposal  selects  for  her  husband 
the  most  worthless  man  of  the  tribe.  Her  devo 
tion  withstands  beatings,  drudgery,  drunkenness 
and  neglect.  One  day  he  pitches  her  bodily  into 
the  pile  of  stones  below  their  wickiup.  This  is 
too  much.  She  puts  herself  together  again  as 
best  she  can  and  leaves  him  for  good.  A  new 
epoch  in  her  life  begins.  Great  souls  emanate 
from  unexpected  sources,  regardless  of  complexion 
or  condition,  and  Mollie's  is  a  great  soul.  She  no 
longer  centers  her  interest  in  a  chosen  few,  but 
gives  out  freely  to  all  who  come  her  way.  She  is 
everyone's  friend,  and  everyone  is  her  friend.  She 
is  the  best  basketmaker,  the  best  pinenut  picker, 
the  best  gambler,  the  best  daughter,  the  best  com 
panion,  in  the  camp.  She  and  her  mother  live  in 
a  tiny  hut — a  real  house  in  Mollie's  eyes,  about 


A  DIGGER  INJUN.  49 

which  hovers  an  atmosphere  of  the  Carson  Valley 
home.  Her  old  horse,  which  is  lame  in  every  leg, 
and  her  mother,  who  is  also  lame  in  every  leg,  ac 
company  her  in  all  of  her  wanderings.  They  pre 
sent  a  unique  picture  as  they  make  their  way  along 
the  winding  trails  of  the  high  Sierra. 

They  start  out  pretty  evenly  loaded,  but  soon 
Mollie  becomes  sorry  for  her  mother  and  puts  her 
load  on  the  horse,  then  Mollie  becomes  sorry  for 
the  horse,  so  takes  the  whole  burden  upon  herself, 
with  the  result  that  Mollie  soon  becomes  sorry  for 
herself  and  there  is  another  equal  division. 

Mollie  talks  very  freely  upon  all  matters,  but 
never  hesitates  to  make  a  story  thrilling  with  inci 
dents  manufactured  for  the  occasion. 

One  morning  I  heard  her  familiar  call  below  my 
window.  Upon  looking  out,  I  beheld  her  stoop 
ing  under  a  heavy  burden.  When  I  asked  her  if 
she  were  going  away,  she  laughed  merrily  and  re 
plied: 

"No,  I  won  all  these  things.  "We  gambled  all 
night  and  I  cleaned  out  Big  Susie's  camp.  They 
haven't  a  thing  left.  First,  I  got  all  their  money, 
then  I  got  all  their  baskets,  then  their  clothes, 


50  A-  DIGGER  INJUN. 

everything!  If  I  had  not  let  them  keep  one  dress, 
they  would  have  nothing  on.  I  won  that  string  of 
beads  that  Susie  would  not  sell  you,  and  Fm  going 
to  give  it  to  you.  I  am  going  to  tell  them  that  I 
sold  it  to  you,  because  they  would  laugh  at  me  if 
they  knew  I  gave  them  to  you  when  I  could  sell 
them.  When  you  look  at  them,  I  want  you  to 
think  of  Mollie.  Mollie  is  your  friend.  I  must 
go  and  sleep  now.  I  gambled  all  night.  Good 
bye." 


EL  CHRISTO 


BY 

J.  L.  SARGENT. 


EL  CHRISTO. 

This  is  the  story  of  the  Flight  of  The  Christ. 
It  was  told  me  long  ago  by  old  Manuel  Escarrega, 
when  we  were  vaqueros  together  on  the  Rancho 
Pescadero. 

He  was  a  queer  old  duffer,  was  Manuel.  Some 
thing  less  than  a  hundred  years  of  mustang-riding 
had  made  him  crooked  in  body  and  pessimistic  in 
mind,,  while  his  funny  little  round  head  was  full  of 
more  wonderful  legends  than  would  fill  a  good- 
sized  volume.  All  these  happened  in  Mexico,  and 
on  one  occasion,  when  trying  to  convince  him  of 
the  contrary,  he  informed  me  very  gravely  that 
no  one  man  could  be  expected  to  know  everything, 
and,  even  if  I  "had  been  to  the  school  of  the  padres 
at  Santa  Clara,  he  had  been  born  in  Mexico  and 
knew  what  hp  was  talking  about. 

His  dialect  cannot  be  clothed  in  letters;  his  dic 
tion,  I  shall  attempt.     Here  is  the  story. 
(53) 


54  EL  CHRISTO. 

"You  see,  Jackie,  in  Mexico  one  time  everybody 
is  bad,  mui  diablo,  like  that  pinto  mustang  you 
ride  the  other  day,  and  the  Dios  he  see,  and  cry, 
and  say,  'Ay!  ay!  Pobre  Mexicanos,  el  Diablo  catch 
you  all;  I  go  myself  and  tell  you  about  the  heaven 
and  make  you  good,  all  the  Mexicanos/ 

"So  the  Dios,  he  come  to  Mexico,  come  just  like 
one  little  baby,  find  himself  Maria,  the  Madre,  and 
come,  just  one  poor  little  baby,  Himself. 

"Now  stay  in  Mexico  this  time  one  king,  very 
bad,  and  when  he  hear  the  Dios  come,  he  is  'fraid 
and  send  the  men  to  kill  all  the  babies.  'So/  the 
king  think,  'The  Dios,  he  be  kill,  and  I  be  Afraid  no 
more.' 

"But  Maria,  the  Madre,  she  know  the  bad  men 
come  to  kill  the  Dios,  El  Christo,  and  she  tell  her 
husband,  Jose,  'Saddle  up  the  mule  quick,  and  we 
run  away  so  the  men  not  kill  us/ 

"And  Jose  saddle  up  the  mule  in  the  night,  and 
Maria,  she  get  on  the  mule  with  the  little  Christo. 
All  night,  travel,  travel,  never  stop  one  time. 

"So,  in  the  morning,  they  come  along  to  one 
place  where  some  men  plow,  and  the  Madre,  she 
stop  and  say,  'Good  morning,  my  boys;  what  you 


EL  CHRISTO.  55 

go  to  raise  here?'  And  the  men  say,  'Ah,  madam, 
we  plow  this  ground  for  raise  corn/  And  the 
Maria  she  say,  'All  right,  my  boys,  you  raise  plenty 
corn  here,  and  you,  please,  suppose  you  see  some 
men  come  and  ask  for  one  man  with  one  woman 
and  one  little  boy,  you  say  they  pass  in  the  same 
time  you  plow  this  ground  for  raise  corn.' 

"Then  the  Madre  go  on,  and  Whoo!  the  corn 
come  up,  grow  and  grow,  and  the  men  look  and 
look,  and  can  say  no  one  word,  and  while  they  look, 
the  corn  get  ripe,  ready  to  cut. 

"So  the  men  get  sickles  and  commence  to  cut 
the  corn,  and  bimeby  along  come  the  men  looking 
for  El  Christo,  and  say,  'Hi,  hombres!  you  see  pass 
here  one  man,  with  one  woman  on  the  mule,  and 
one  little  boy?'  and  the  men  who  cut  the  corn  say, 
'Yes,  yes;  we  see  pass  here  in  the  same  time  we 
plow  this  ground  for  plant  the  corn.'  'Qui  carajo!' 
the  bad  men  say.  'Pass  long  time  ago.  No  mat 
ter.  Chase  them  anyhow.  Might  be  they  not  go 
far.' 

"Then  the  men  give  spur  the  mustang  and  go 
on. 

"In  the  same  time  the  Madre  go  quick  and  pret- 


56  EL  CHRISTO. 

ty  soon  come  to  another  rancho  and  see  the  men 
plow.  'Ho!  my  boys/  she  call,  'what  you  go  raise 
here?'  Now  the  man  who  have  this  rancho,  he 
ia  mean  like  wild  mustang  and  he  say,  'Bock — we 
raise  rock  here/  And  the  Madre,  she  say,  'All 
right,  my  boys,  you  raise  plenty  rocks,  and  you 
please,  suppose  you  see  some  men  come  and  ask  for 
one  man,  with  one  woman  on  the  mule,  and  one 
little  boy,  you  say  they  pass  in  the  same  time  you 
plow  this  ground  for  plant  rocks.' 

"So  the  Madre  go  on,  and  Whoo !  the  rocks  come 
up,  big  like  horse,  like  house,  like  church,  all  the 
ground  is  full,  and  the  ranchero  see  all  the  rancho 
go,  and  sit  down  and  cry,  'Ay!  Ay!  AyP 

"Now  the  bad  men  come  and  see  the  rocks  and 
hear  the  ranchero  make  noise  like  one  old,  old, 
coyote,  and  say,  'Hi,  hombre!  you  see  pass  here  one 
man,  with  one  woman  on  the  mule,  and  one  little 
boy?' 

"And  the  ranchero  cry,  and  say,  'Ay!  Ay!  I  see, 
I  see!  "She  pass  in  the  same  time  I  plow  this 
ground  for  raise  rocks.  Ay!  Ay!  Ay!' 

"Then  the  bad  men  look  and  see  all  the  rocks, 
and  say,  'Cajajo!  No  use  to  go  more;  pass  too  long 


EL  CHRISTO.  57 

ago;  this  rock  be  here  'bout  three  thousand  years/ 
and  all  go  back  and  tell  the  king  they  no  can  find 
El  Christo. 

"But  the  Madre  go  on,  more  slow  now,  for  she 
know  the  men  go  back.  Pretty  soon  she  go  sleep, 
for  they  travel  long  way,  and  while  she  sleep,  one 
snake  come  along  the  trail,  stand  up  straight  on 
the  tail,  so,  for  that  time  the  snake  go  just  like 
man,  straight  up;  when  the  mule  see  the  snake, 
she  scare,  and  jump,  and  the  Madre,  before  she 
can  wake  up,  fall  down  in  the  trail. 

"The  Madre  get  up,  all  dust  and  mad,  plenty, 
and  she  curse  the  snake  and  the  mule,  and  she  tell 
the  snake,  Tou  make  me  dust;  crawl  in  the  dust 
you;  no  more  you  stand  on  your  tail,  but  go  on 
your  belly/  And  the  mule  she  tell,  Tretty  near 
you  kill  my  boy,  El  Christo.  You  never  can  have 
colt/ 

"And  the  snake  fall  down  on  the  belly  and  go 
so  all  the  time  like  now.  Some  day  one  mule  got 
one  colt,  and  then  the  whole  world  is  gone,  so!" 
And  the  last  puff  of  smoke  from  Manuel's  cigarette 
floated  wearily  off  through  the  evening. 


"A  cross  stands  outlined  against  the  blue."     Page  61 


MAJEL 

BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT  WILSON. 


MAJEL. 

As  I  sit  in  my  tent  deep  in  the  Matilija  Canon, 
the  sky  above  me  appears  like  a  strip  of  frayed 
blue  ribbon,  and  I  think  of  the  time  when  I  was 
a  child  and  it  seemed  as  though  if  one  were  on  the 
mountain-top,  there  would  be  nothing  to  prevent 
stepping  right  into  heaven. 

My  gaze  follows  the  serrate  line  and  pauses 
where  a  cross  stands  outlined  against  the  blue.  At 
its  foot  is  a  mound  that  marks  the  resting-place  of 
a  man  and  a  woman. 

While  I  sit  dreaming  there  flashes  before  my 
mental  vision  the  old  mission  at  San  Buenaven 
tura,  It  is  the  time  of  the  annual  fiesta  when 
the  Indian  youths  and  maids  under  the  train 
ing  of  the  good  fathers  are  betrothed.  For  weeks, 
preparations  have  been  under  way,  and  now,  after 
mass,  when  the  whole  world  seems  pure  and  free 
from  sin,  the  happy  throng  files  into  the  open, 
(61) 


62  MAJEL. 

where  tables  groan  under  their  weight  of  oranges, 
honey,  nuts,  raisins  and  dried  figs.  From  the  pits 
is  wafted  the  savory  odor  of  barbecued  meats.  An 
ox,  half  a  dozen  lambs,  poultry  and  venison  all  cast 
incense  most  seductive  upon  the  senses. 

Judas  Iscariot  is  hung,  then  his  body  burned  in 
effigy.  There  are  to  be  games,  races  and  dancing. 
A  circus  for  the  bull-fight  and  a  cock-pit  are  also 
provided. 

Of  all  the  happy  company,  but  one  face  carries 
the  marks  of  misery.  That  is  Majel,  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  the  old  chief  Matilija,  who  in  his 
stronghold  has  defied  both  missionaries  and  sol 
diers,  and  absolutely  refused  to  have  aught  to  do 
with  the  aliens.  Thieves,  he  calls  them,  usurpers 
of  what  Manitou  had  given  direct  to  the  Indians. 
This  conviction  licensed  Matilija  to  plunder  stock 
and  provisions,  not  sparing  even  a  padre's  scalp  or 
gown  could  he  but  be  caught  unawares. 

The  fathers,  in  their  zeal  for  the  spread  of  that 
faith  which,  in  their  belief,  is  the  only  road  along 
which  travelers  may  reach  God's  throne,  had  cap 
tured  Majel  and  kept  her  an  unwilling  prisoner. 
Once  converted,  her  love  and  persuasion  would 


MAJEL.  63 

conquer  the  old  chiefs  heart.  Then  all  would  be 
well.  Their  lives  and  property  would  be  secure 
from  the  enemies'  devastation. 

Ah,  the  glory  of  that  spring  day!  A  canopy  of 
turquoise  resting  on  pillars  of  pure  gold!  A  car 
pet  of  emerald  with  here  and  there  diamonds 
sparkling  into  rippling  lakes  and  gurgling  streams! 
And  the  air!  Intoxication  came  with  every 
draught  of  it! 

Old  Padre  Angelo  rubbed  his  dessicated  hands 
together  as  he  drank  in  the  situation,  and  mur 
mured,  "This  is  heaven;  why  should  we  pray  for 
more?  God  is  here,  why  seek  him  afar?" 

But  Majel,  in  the  sweet,  mournful  tone  that 
characterizes  her  namesake,  sent  a  message  far  into 
the  mountains.  It  was  caught  and  buried  in  the 
heart  of  the  man  she  loved,  and  he  answered, 
"Come." 

She  went,  and  the  horror  of  it  is  past  telling. 

Through  the  night,  as  she  fled  up  the  canon, 
terror  struck  her  at  every  step.  That  dreadful 
crackling  of  the  bushes,  the  shimmer  of  wierd 
shapes  in  the  moonlight,  and  that  blood-curdling 
wail  of  the  mountain  lion  made  her  brave  heart 


64  MAJEL. 

stand  still.  "The  long,  nameless  note"  of  coyotes 
became  hellish  noise  as  they  raced  over  the  ridges, 
and  the  rolling  of  loose  stones  down  the  mountain 
side  sounded  like  armies  in  pursuit.  But  at  last 
it  ends,  as  Majel,  at  dawn,  bounds  into  the  camp. 

The  joy  of  her  return  was  expressed  in  the 
grunts  of  old  Matilija.  Never  before  or  since  did 
anyone  know  grunts  to  emit  joy,  but  that  day  they 
did. 

Great  preparation  is  made  to  celebrate  the  re 
turn  of  Majel. 

The  old  squaws,  with  their  long,  smooth  pestles, 
sit  grinding  pinenuts  and  acorns  to  flour,  in  mor 
tars  hollowed  in  boulders  of  granite.  Younger 
women  were  weaving  baskets  to  be  given  to  Majel 
on  her  wedding  day.  The  black  zigzag  designs  on 
the  baskets  are  brightened  by  red  feathers.  Bead 
bracelets  and  belts  are  threaded  for  the  trousseau. 
Skins  are  being  scraped  to  cover  the  new  wickiup 
that  is  to  be  added  to  the  village. 

Gorgeous  blankets  are  growing  in  racks  where 
skilled  hands  know  well  how  to  blend  colors  most 
pleasing  to  the  eye. 

The  men  are  off  on  a  big  hunt,  and  the  children 
play  games  and  sing  droning  songs. 


MAJEL.  65 

At  last  the  feast  is  ready.  Majel  and  Ysanga- 
deva  are  led  within  the  circle  and  stand  hand  in 
hand  ready  for  the  benediction,  when  through  the 
canon  reverberates  the  sharp  cracking  of  rifles. 

"Manitou!"  cries  the  old  chief,  "Give  me  their 
hearts'  blood."  And  he  sprang  with  bow  and  ar 
row  ready.  But  too  late;  the  soldiers  are  upon 
them.  Those  not  slaughtered  were  taken  away 
captive — all  but  one.  Majel  in  her  fright 
crouched  in  the  shade  of  a  rock  and  escaped  no 
tice. 

When  everything  was  quiet  again,  she  crept 
among  the  slain,  seeking  her  loved  ones.  The 
father  was  dead,  but  a  faint  flicker  of  life  still 
smoldered  in  the  body  of  her  lover. 

The  frail  girl  clasped  him  to  her  breast,  deter 
mined  to  fan  the  spark  in  life's  glowing  flame. 

"Come  back,  my  love,"  she  sobbed,  "and  stay 
with  your  Majel!" 

The  heavy  eyelids  opened  and  a  smile  answered 
her.  With  this,  she  lifts  him  in  her  arms  and  be 
gins  to  climb  the  steep  mountainside. 

Ah,  the  toil  of  it!  At  every  step  she  seems  to 
slide  back  three  in  the  slippery  mountain  shale. 


66  MAJEL. 

Finally,  far  out  on  the  point  that  commands  a  view 
of  the  canon,  the  Ojai  Valley,  and  on  towards  the 
sea,  Majel  lays  her  precious  charge  on  the  ground. 

"My  own,  we  are  safe  here.  You  will  be  well 
soon;  then  we  will  fly  far,  far  away  where  none  can 
find  us." 

During  the  days  that  followed,  berries  were 
brought,  healing  herbs  applied,  but  on  the  fifth 
day  there  was  a  little  flash,  and  only  ashes  re 
mained. 

It  was  a  holy  burial.  The  tears  that  mingled 
with  the  grave's  fillinig  are  in  heaven,  bright  jew 
els  in  God's  diadem. 

As  I  look,  I  seem  to  hear  floating  down,  the  old, 
sweet,  words,  "Come  unto  Me,  all  ye  that  are  weary 
and  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 


THE 
JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN 


BY 

J.  L.  SARGENT. 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIK 


With  a  Winchester  rifle  lying  across  his  knees,, 
hell  in  his  heart  and  vacant  eyes  looking  out 
across  the  peaks  and  ridges  of  the  Sierras,  John 
Fannin  sat  on  the  tiptop  of  Clinton's  Butte. 

A  chaos  of  unutterable  thoughts,  half-formed 
purposes,  fragmentary  ideas,  all  amalgamated  with 
the  horrible  sense  of  his  utter  misery,  whirled  and 
danced  and  circled  about  his  brain,  leaving  noth 
ing  clear,  and  giving  him  the  fantastic  feeling  of 
being  himself  and  two  or  three  new  persons  also. 

The  first  great  shock  of  his  trouble  was  upon 
him;  just  a  word  from  the  mouth  of  a  vindictive 
babbler,  but  one  of  those  flashes  of  omniscience 
which  the  Devil  sometimes  sends  made  Fannin  see 
the  truth  in  all  its  crooked  detail.  Wearily  his 
mind  went  over  the  facts,  as  they  had  been  re 
viewed  a  thousand  times  since  the  morning — the 
dance  at  BelPs  the  night  before;  the  crowd  of  men 
(69) 


70  THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN. 

taking  a  parting  drink  in  the  queer  light,  half 
dawn,  half  candles;  Cusack's  sneering  gibe  at  the 
virtue  of  women  in  general  and  of  Mrs.  Fannin  in 
particular;  the  dirty,  disfigured  thing  that  stared 
up  from  the  floor  with  one  unseeing  eye  when  he 
was  finally  torn  away  from  it,  and  above  all,  worse 
than  all,  the  knowledge  that  came  to  him,  even 
before  he  struck,  that  Cusack  spoke  the  truth. 

Hurrying  his  wife  home,  before  a  rumor  of  the 
fracas  reached  her,  he  grasped  the  Winchester  and 
struck  out  over  the  hills  in  the  early  dawn,  any 
where,  anything,  to  think,  not  to  think,  absolutely 
unreasoning,  just  with  the  instinct  of  a  wounded 
animal,  which  drives  it  into  solitude. 

Sitting  for  hours  on  the  breezy  mountain  top, 
the  horrid  whirl  in  his  head  began  to  slowly  die, 
and  the  cool,  strong  intellect  which  characterized 
the  man  arose  to  resume  its  sway. 

Recollection  ran  mechanically  back  over  the  last 
two  years,  bringing  up  smiling  phantoms  of  happy 
hours,  who  fled  again,  dismayed  at  the  devils  of 
the  present. 

Just  two  years  it  was  since  she  had  come  to  Tel 
lurium,  she  and  her  father,  who  came  as  others  had 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  F  ANN  IN.  71 

come — and  gone — to  try  his  luck  at  reducing  the 
camp's  rich,  but  rebellious,  ores. 

Fannin  then,  as  now,  was  superintendent  of  the 
only  mine  in  the  district  which  returned  in  bul 
lion  over  half  the  value  of  the  ore.  A  college  man, 
an  athlete,  a  student,  a  mighty  hunter,  a  dweller 
in  camps  and  a  denizen  of  cities,  but  a  miner  al 
ways. 

The  ore  of  Tellurium  fascinated  Fannin  as  it 
had  others,  but  he,  where  they  had  failed, 
succeeded,  after  a  year's  experimenting,  in  devel 
oping  a  process  by  which  the  stuff  could  be  worked 
profitably.  More  experiments,  and  incessant 
study,  had  brought  his  method  near  perfection;  he 
and  his  partners  were  wealthy  men. 

Others,  spurred  on  by  his  success,  came  and 
went  in  an  everflowing  tide,  some  making  a  little 
headway,  the  majority  a  dismal  failure,  while  Fan 
ning  process  remained  safely  locked  up  in  his  head, 
there  to  remain,  as  he  said,  until  some  one  paid 
him  for  the  use  of  his  brains. 

Eva  Johnston  and  her  father  had  floated  in  with 
the  passing  stream;  the  father  floated  out  in  a 
coffin;  Eva  remained  as  Mrs.  Fannin. 


72  THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN. 

From  the  hour  she  climbed  down  from  the 
dirty  stagecoach,  her  red  hair  white  with  dust, 
she  was  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  John 
Fannin. 

Her  graceful,  cat-like  motions,  her  big  black 
eyes,  her  mass  of  fiery  hair,  cast  a  spell  over  him 
that  was  akin  to  lunacy.  His  wooing  was  as  impet 
uous  as  the  rush  of  many  waters,  and  carried  her 
away  in  its  sweep  and  swirl,  as  a  chip  is  carried 
in  a  roaring  stream. 

Passionate  herself,  his  passion  struck  an  answer 
ing  chord,  his  splendid  animal  beauty  appealed 
to  the  animal  in  her,  and  she  was  won.  When 
won,  she  loved  him,  loved  him  as  much  as  she 
could  love  any  one  man,  and  the  joy  of  her  caresses 
made  him  mad. 

Hi!  What  days  they  were,  those  of  the  honey 
moon!  Fate  sends  such  times  to  but  a  few,  and 
always,  always,  from  those  who  receive,  sometime 
in  the  future  is  a  payment  wrung,  heavy  as  the 
past  was  light. 

For  six  months  their  happiness  was  perfect; 
then — she  had  had  enough  of  Fannin,  and  turned 
to  the  next  as  lightly  as  a  butterfly  might  flit  from 
rose  to  verbena. 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN.  73 

He  was  the  night-boss  in  Fannin's  mine,  this 
other,  his  name  Bob  Maline,  a  man  with  the  face 
of  a  saint,  and  a  past  like  charity,  but  who  had 
his  own  code  of  right  and  wrong,  in  which  the 
chief  section  was  a  large  respect  for  the  rights  of 
husbands. 

"Women  are  plenty,"  quoth  this  mountain  sage. 
"And  a  man  that  will  monkey  with  another  man's 
wife  deserves  the  worst  he  can  get." 

Such  were  his  scruples,  yet  against  Eva  Fan 
ning  wiles  he  fought  just  one  week,  then  became 
her  slave  and  cursed  himself  right  royally  for  being 
so. 

He  despised  himself  for  fifty  reasons.  Fannin 
was  the  only  man  in  the  world  for  whom  he  had 
any  liking;  besides,  his  weakness  in  yielding  was 
a  constant  reproach  to  his  sturdy  nature,  but  for 
all  that,  indulgence  did  not  cease,  and  the  stolen 
interviews  went  on,  sweeter  because  stolen,  while 
the  season  of  reproach  after  each  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  season  of  longing  for  the  next  to  come. 

The  woman  loved  him  as  she  had  loved  Fan 
nin,  passionately,  yet  the  illicit  love  lasted  longer, 
measured  by  time,  than  the  legitimate;  for  the  in- 


74  THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN. 

terviews  were,  of  necessity,  few,  and  passion's  fuel, 
as  other  combustibles,  lasts  longer  when  slowly 
given  to  the  flame. 

Fannin,  trusting,  went  his  accustomed  way,  lov 
ing  always,  seeing  nothing,  but  feeling  instinc 
tively  an  undefined  something  which  could  not  be 
put  in  words.  A  knowledge  of  some  change  lay 
latent  in  his  brain,  unknown  to  him,  making  its 
presence  felt  only  by  a  vague  sensation  of  unrest. 

Others  were  not  so  blind,  yet  things  went  on 
without  a  ripple  till  the  dance  at  Bell's,  when 
Cusack's  gibe  awoke  Fanning  dreaming  wits,  and 
one  flash  of  the  devil's  inspiration  showed  him  the 
entire  situation. 

From  the  top  of  Clinton's  Butte,  his  brain 
cleared  up,  his  nerves  steadied,  John  Fannin 
looked  down  on  Tellurium  and  saw  the  end. 

He  had  tried,  struggling  in  a  vain  endeavor  to 
disprove  certainty,  to  establish  innocence  by  a  re 
view  of  the  past,  but  by  every  turn  was  met  by 
some  circumstance  trifling  in  itself,  yet  damning 
when  considered  in  the  glare  of  recent  knowledge. 
A  glance  here,  an  intercepted  smile  there,  a  small 
lie  yonder,  all  these  and  others.  Ah,  Christ!  How 
well  he  knew  those  glances,  those  emiles! 


THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN.  75 

Well!  It  was  over.  All  that  remained  was  jus 
tice,  and  the  dealing  out  thereof. 

The  wages  of  sin,  that  had  heen  settled  long  ago; 
the  hand  to  dole  it,  that  was  his;  the  manner — 
and  the  query  was  answered  even  as  it  arose. 

In  the  canon,  a  mile  beneath  him,  his  eyes 
caught  two  figures  entering  an  abandoned  tunnel; 
one  of  them  he  knew,  his  wife,  the  other  he  guessed 
at,  and  with  a  laugh  caught  up  his  rifle  and 
started  down  the  mountain. 

The  next  three  days  were  busy  times  for  John 
Fannin.  The  tunnel  was  old,  the  ground  at  its 
mouth  was  heavy,  the  timbers  rotten,  but  further 
in  the  hill,  where  it  entered  the  solid  rock,  was 
roomy,  safe,  and,  better  than  all,  dry. 

Some  judicious  tampering  with  the  rotten  tim 
bers,  the  insertion  of  a  little  blasting  powder 
above  each  set,  connecting  the  different  charges 
and  bringing  the  wires  to  a  battery  just  outside, 
concealment  of  every  trace,  and  the  trick  was  done. 

He  waited  — just  two  days. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  the  meet 
ing  of  the  lovers  was  rudely  interrupted.  At  the 
mouth  of  the  tunnel  appeared  John  Fannin,  who 


76  THE  JUSTICE  OF  JOHN  FANNIN. 

advised  them  thus,  "Don't  disturb  yourselves,  you 
two;  you  have  evinced  a  great  desire  for  each 
other's  company.  I  am  going  away  and  shall  leave 
you  here  together.  I  hope  you  don't  tire  of  each 
other  before  we  meet  again." 

Then  he  touched  the  button  of  the  battery. 

A  muffled  explosion,  the  crash  of  falling  earth, 
a  cloud  of  dust,  and  the  tunnel's  mouth  was  closed 
with  a  thousand  tons  of  debris,  while  in  behind  it 
all,  safe  in  the  solid  rock,  shivered  two  human  be 
ings,  awaiting  the  judgment  of  the  All-wise  One. 
Who  of  us  knows  what  mete  to  them  was  given? 


THE 
COLONEL   AND  BETTY  ANN 

BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT  WILSON. 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

"I  tell  you,  Tony,  my  very  life's  a  hideous  night 
mare,  all  owing  to  the  Colonel.  He  will  surely  be 
the  cause  of  my  seeking  an  early  grave." 

As  John  drawled  this  mournful  prediction,  he 
bent  over  the  fireplace  in  a  despondent  attitude, 
and  gave  the  smouldering  knots  that  were  boiling 
Tony  McFadden's  sooty  pot  of  beans  a  vicious 
poke. 

"What's  he  up  to  now?"  asked  Tony. 

"Up  to!  That's  just  it.  He'd  be  up  to  the  top 
of  the  Tower  of  Babel  if  the  thing  had  ever  been 
finished.  You  see,  a  while  back,  when  he  made 
such  a  terrible  raid  on  Aratto's  grape-patch,  the 
dirty  dago  was  for  having  my  life,  and  in  order  to 
quiet  him,  I  went  Ealvers  on  enough  barbed  wire 
to  heighten  his  mongrel  fence.  It  wouldn't  keep 
out  smoke  the  way  it  was,  part  stone,  part  rail,  and 
some  places  only  brush.  But  that's  nothing. 
(79) 


80  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

There's  no  reason  in  them  cowardly  dagoes. 
They're  the  kind  that  sneak  up  and  stab  a  fellow 
in  the  back.  I  never  mind  meeting  a  man  when 
there's  a  fair  chance  at  self-defense. 

"Well,  I  thought  it  was  all  fixed  in  that  quarter, 
and  a  sort  of  peace  settled  on  my  soul. 

"I  tell  you,  it's  mighty  upsetting  to  have  one's 
life  in  jeopardy!  But  this  tranquility  had  no  more 
than  fairly  begun  when  a  fresh  scheme  of  the  Colo 
nel's  knocked  it  into  a  cocked  hat. 

"You  know,  back  of  Aratto's  winehouse,  the 
shed  where  he  keeps  his  presses  and  things  runs 
right  up  to  the  fence.  Without  so  much  as  saying, 
'By  your  leave,"  to  the  barbed  wire,  the  Colonel 
jumps  up  on  the  top  of  that  shed  and  stands  there 
bobbing  his  head  up  and  down,  looking  as  wise  as 
Solomon,  and  parleying  with  the  rest  of  the  flock 
in  little  low,  jerky  noises  way  down  in  his  throat. 
Before  you  could  say  'Jack  Robinson/  Betty  Ann, 
with  a  knowing  cast  of  countenance,  jumped  up 
beside  him.  That  settled  it.  In  a  jiffy  every  last 
goat  was  hurdle-racing  through  that  blamed  dago's 
grapevines. 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTJ  ANN.  81 

"I  tell  you,  they're  a  pair,  the  Colonel  and  Betty 
Ann.  If  that  billy-goat  was  a  man,  he'd  be  Presi 
dent.  Yes,  he'd  be  Napoleon,  or  Moses,  with 
Betty  Ann  for  prime  minister.  She's  just  as 
knowing  as  he  is,  only  tradition  ordains  that  he 
shall  take  the  lead.  Custom  prevails,  you  know, 
'mong  goats  as  well  as  people." 

"Here,  have  another  glass  of  'dago  red'  to  keep 
your  spirits  up,"  said  Tony.  "It's  Aratto's  last 
batch;  it's  new  yet,  so  goes  to  one's  head  pretty 
bad.  Have  you  bought  any  of  it  yet?" 

John  needed  no  second  invitation,  and  after 
smacking  his  lips  in  relish  of  embryo  vinegar,  he 
drawled  in  his  whining  tone: 

"No,  I  don't  dare  go  near  the  place,  though  my 
throat  is  parched  to  a  blister.  Ten  thousand  dev 
ils  couldn't  send  out  as  much  fury  as  that  dago 
when  he  found  them  goats  in  his  patch  again.  I 
tell  you,  man,  I'm  afraid  to  put  my  face  outside 
my  cabin,  and  I  lie  shivering  in  terror  the  whole 
night  through,  and  feeling  the  very  knife-blade 
coming  up  between  the  slats  of  my  back.  It's  no 
joke  going  about  this  way  with  my  life  in  peril." 


32  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

The  wine  by  this  time  was  beginning  to  sizzle, 
and  John's  sympathy  for  himself  was  increased  as 
his  head  grew  light.  He  was  of  a  teary  tempera 
ment,  and  always  wept  copiously  when  overcome 
by  any  sort  of  lubricating  beverage. 

"Don't  take  it  to  heart  so,  John,"  said  Tony. 
"Aratto  isn't  so  bad  as  you  think  him.  I  believe 
it's  mostly  talk  with  him.  He  wouldn't  really 
hurt  you." 

"You  may  think  so,"  blubbered  John,  "but  you 
don't  know  them  devils.  They're  a  bloodthirsty 
lot.  An  honest  American  citizen  stands  no  show 
beside  them,  and  their  garden  patches,  and  they 
having  the  right  to  vote,  the  same  as  Christians. 
If  you  put  one  of  them  out  in  the  middle  of  the 
Sahara  Desert,  with  only  a  whisk-broom,  he'd 
sweep  up  some  sand,  and  have  a  crop  of  potatoes, 
cabbages  and  things  in  less  than  a  week's  time. 
It's  bred  in  the  bone,  that  and  their  thirst  for  mur 
der. 

"It's  a  beastly  shame  that  Congress  don't  pass  an 
act  to  keep  them  foreigners  out  of  the  country." 

"Well,"  answered  Tony  reflectively,  "  it's  lucky 
the  act  wasn't  passed  before  you  and  I  got  here,  or 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETT7  ANN.  83 

we'd  have  been  forced  to  seek  quarters  in  Cuba  or 
Manila,  and  in  my  opinion,  a  dago  is  nothing  to 
the  savages  we'd  have  to  face  in  either  of  them 
countries." 

"Oh,"  said  John,  "I  don't  want  to  see  people 
from  civilized  countries  like  England  and  Ireland 
and  Germany  excluded,  but  there  should  be  a  law 
against  barbarians,  such  as  dagoes  and  Chinamen." 

Then  came  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  the 
thoughts  of  both  men  being  too  hazy  to  settle  sat 
isfactorily  such  a  weighty  question. 

The  day  was  sultry,  and  the  Sierra  were  already 
beginning  to  assume  the  yellow  garb  of  summer. 
In  looking  over  the  mountains,  two  bright  green 
spots  stood  out  in  bold  relief  against  a  background 
of  sere  hills,  with  their  sparse  sprinkling  of  dry 
grass  and  clusters  of  "digger  pine." 

One  of  these  spots  is  Aratto's  well-kept  vine 
yard,  which  spreads  over  a  sloping  hillside, 
where  the  industrious  Italian  makes  a  frugal  living 
by  selling  wine  and  vegetables.  The  other  is 
Tony's  scant  grain  crop,  struggling  for  existence 
on  the  flat,  two  miles  beyond  Tony's  cabin.  It 
took  much  coaxing  in  favored  spots  to  secure  hay 
enough  for  the  old  mare's  winter  fodder. 


84  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

Tony  and  the  old  mare  were  inseparable.  One 
was  seldom  seen  without  the  other.  Their  close 
companionship  was  the  result  of  Tony's  stiff  leg, 
caused  by  a  mining  accident  years  before.  Though 
he  could  limp  over  the  hills  at  an  alarming  speed,, 
he  kept  the  old  mare  to  spare  his  leg,  he  said,  but 
just  in  what  manner  the  sparing  was  done,  no  one 
ever  could  discover.  He  stumped  along  the  moun 
tain  trails  with  the  mare's  bridle  thrown  over  his 
arm,  and  the  old  creature  jogging  along  behind 
him.  As  she  had  four  stiff  legs,  this  seemed  by  all 
means  the  most  sensible  arrangement.  When  ques 
tioned  as  to  why  he  was  walking,  Tony  always  re 
plied  that  he  was  just  sparing  the  mare  in  this 
steep  place.  As  there  were  few  places  that  were 
not  steep,  Tony  was  seldom  seen  mounted. 

Only  twice  a  year  did  the  mare  do  any  real  ser 
vice.  That  was  in  winter  when  she  plowed  the 
patch  and  Aratto's  vineyard,  and  again  in  summer 
when  she  hauled  the  meagre  hay  crop  on  a  sled  to 
the  shed. 

Both  Tony  and  John  mined  about  the  gulches, 
and  the  greater  portion  of  their  scant  earnings 
went  for  the  product  of  the  thrifty  Italian's  vine- 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN.  85 

yard  and  the  vile  whiskey  sold  at  the  nearest  store. 

They  sat  there  stupidly  mumbling  in  the  hot 
cabin,  when  suddenly  Tony  straightened  up  and 
gazed  intently  out  the  door.  John  began  to  fidget 
as  his  glance  followed  Tony's. 

"Just  look  at  that,  will  you!"  angrily  ejaculated 
Tony.  "It  makes  a  man  breathe  brimstone." 

John  looked,  but  the  sight  was  not  conducive  to 
peace  of  mind. 

The  illustrious  flock  of  goats  was  leisurely  saun 
tering  from  the  direction  of  Tony's  wheatfield 
toward  the  solitary  oak  tree  under  which  the  Colo 
nel  and  his  companions  usually  enjoyed  their 
siesta, 

The  Colonel  was  in  the  lead,  closely  followed 
by  Betty  Ann,  with  the  rest  trailing  along  in  a 
bunch  at  their  rear.  They  looked  neither  to  the 
right  or  left,  and  the  lazy,  satisfied  gait  at  which 
they  proceeded  was  sure  evidence  of  full  stomachs. 

"Just  look  at  them!  Just  see  their  sides  stick 
ing  out  like  wine  barrels!"  cried  Tony, who  was  now 
exercising  an  Indian  pow-wow  about  the  room. 
"Have  you  no  decency,  man,  that  you  let  your  vag 
abond  goats  trespass  on  other  people's  property? 


86  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

Think  of  the  long  winter  days  that  the  old  mare 
will  go  hungry  in  consequence,  and  her  poor  ribs 
hollowing  in  just  in  proportion  as  theirs  bulge 
out,  and  more  than  twenty  of  them,  and  only  one 
of  her.  To  the  devil  with  you  and  your  goats! 
Damn  you,  man,  I  won't  stand  it." 

John  staggered  to  his  feet,  and,  shaking  his  fist 
at  Tony,  he  cried,  "Tony  McFadden,  you're  insult 
ing  me,  here  in  your  own  house.  I  won't  take 
such  talk  from  no  man.  I  demand  satisfaction. 
Yes,  sir,  I  demand  it.  Do  you  hear?" 

"And  satisfaction  you  shall  have,"  shrieked 
Tony,  his  small  black  eyes  snapping  fire,  and  his 
stiff  leg  spread  at  a  broad  angle  so  as  to  brace  him 
self  in  a  firm  and  threatening  attitude.  "You're 
dealing  with  no  dago  now,  I'll  have  you  know,  but 
with  a  gentleman  who  will  meet  you  fair  and 
square  in  the  open  field.  We'll  fight  it  out  in  a 
duel." 

John's  courage  took  a  mighty  tumble  at  Tony's 
words  and  manner,  notwithstanding  the  encour 
aging  influence  of  the  wine.  He  managed  to  re 
ply  with  a  huge  effort  at  bravado,  "All  right,  sir; 
choose  your  weapons." 


TEE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN.  87 

"I'll  use  my  shotgun,"  said  Tony,  "and  I'll  fill 
you  chuckful  of  lead,  you  sniveling  blatherskite!" 

John  winced,  and  suddenly  sat  down  through 
an  overpowering  weakness  in  his  knees. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  it's  to  he  firearms,  I'll  use 
my  old  horse-pistol,  and  may  the  Lord  direct  my 
hand.  Don't  you  have  to  have  seconds,  and  sur 
geons,  and  a  code  of  law  in  duels? 

"No,"  said  Tony,  "that's  the  old-fashioned  way. 
There's  no  use  in  all  that  tomfoolery.  If  we're 
killed,  that  ends  it,  and  we  don't  need  no  doctor. 
If  we're  hurt,  it's  time  enough  then  to  send  for 
him.  All  we  need  to  do  is  to  pace  off  the  distance, 
count  one,  two,  three,  and  fire!" 

"Who'll  do  the  counting?"  asked  John. 

"We  can  draw  lots,"  answered  Tony. 

"Yes,  and  you'll  get  it,"  protested  John. 
"There's  no  luck  in  me,  and  how  do  I  know  hut 
you'd  fire  before  you  counted  the  three?  Don't 
you  see,  it  gives  me  no  show.  I  won't  agree  to  no 
such  risk.  An  outside  party  must  do  the  count- 
ing." 

"All  right,  we'll  get  Aratto.  He's  near,"  replied 
Tony. 


88  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETT7  ANN. 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean?  I  won't  have 
him,"  wildly  ejaculated  John.  "He'd  give  you 
the  wink  just  for  the  pure  joy  of  seeing  me  mur 
dered." 

"Well,  then,  we'll  get  Joe  Carson.  He's  a  friend 
to  both  of  us  and  will  do  the  fair  thing,"  said 
Tony.  "I'll  go  after  him." 

"Very  well,"  agreed  John,  "but  don't  inform 
him  that  it's  a  duel.  Just  say  we  have  a  little 
business,  and  need  him  for  a  witness." 

"All  right,"  Tony  answered.     "Set  your  time." 

"Tomorrow  at  high  noon,"  replied  John  in 
tragic  tones.  "I've  read  somewhere  of  things  hap 
pening  at  high  noon,  and  it  always  sounded  well, 
but  I  never  thought  of  its  coming  home  to  me  in 
this  way.  I  seem  to  be  reading  now  in  next  week's 
Chronicle:  'John  White,  an  honored  and  respected 
citizen,  and  a  California  pioneer,  foully  shot 
through  the  heart  by  a  villainous  one-legged  Irish 
man  named  Tony  McFadden." 

Here  John  again  subsided  into  teary  sorrow  over 
his  demise,  but  Tony  kept  on  stumping  up  and 
down  the  cabin,  his  stiff  leg  coming  down  with  an 
ominous  thud  at  each  step. 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN.  89 

"Come,  get  out  of  this,"  he  said,  "and  don't 
show  me  your  ugly  mug  again  till  you're  ready  to 
fight.  Now,  mind,  you  don't  sneak  out  of  it,  you 
sniv'ling  coward.  Tomorrow,  at  noon,  right  out 
there  in  front  of  this  door/' 

"Yes,"  wailed  the  crestfallen  John.  "We're  en 
emies  now,  and  must  act  according." 

In  both  cabins,  that  afternoon,  there  were  great 
preparations  for  the  next  day's  event.  Both  wea 
pons  had  been  loaded  but  not  used  for  years,  so 
their  condition  necessitated  vigorous  scouring  and 
much  expenditure  of  oil.  As  the  shotgun  was  a 
hard  kicker,  Tony  concluded  to  take  its  going  off 
for  granted,  and  thus  save  himself  an  unnecessary 
blow. 

"There's  no  real  comfort  in  a  gun  that  shoots 
both  ways,"  he  growled. 

The  horse-pistol  was  still  more  doubtful.  There 
was  a  tradition  that  in  case  it  ever  went  off  at  all, 
both  pistol  and  shooter  would  go  up  in  smoke. 
So  John,  also,  concluded  to  trust  to  Providence  for 
its  behavior  on  the  morrow. 

The  thoughts  of  the  two  men  ran  in  very  differ 
ent  channels  as  they  sought  their  respective  bunks 


90  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

that  night.  Tony,  though  still  in  great  rage  over 
the  shortage  in  the  old  mare's  already  too  scant 
allowance,  hegan  to  see  the  ludicrous  side  of  the 
contemplated  settlement. 

"The  cowardly  rascal  needs  a  lesson  for  keeping 
those  blamed  goats,"  he  reflected.  "He  never  pro 
vides  for  them,  so  they  have  grown  to  be  a  regular 
set  of  scavengers,  and  no  one  need  tell  me  that  ani 
mals  can't  reason.  Those  goats  have  their  beat  all 
laid  out  months  ahead,  and  could  show  you  the  day 
on  the  calendar  when  the  mare's  barley  is  most 
nourishing. 

"I  wish  I  had  thrashed  the  scoundrel  on  the 
spot.  That  would  have  settled  it.  I  don't  like 
this  duel  business,  after  all.  One  of  us  may  get 
hurt,  but  he  insisted  on  it.  He  would  have  satis 
faction,  and  I  guess  he's  getting  it.  He'll  suffer  a 
blamed  sight  more  through  fright  than  if  his 
whole  head  was  shot  off." 

These  thoughts  carried  Tony  into  dreamland, 
where  goats,  horse-pistols  and  shotguns  were  hold 
ing  high  carnival,  and  he  was  helplessly  transfixed 
as  a  target  upon  which  they  were  exercising  their 
skill  in  a  butting  and  shooting  contest. 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN.  91 

John  was  surely  convinced  that  his  last  hour  was 
near  at  hand.  In  the  mortal  fear  under  which  he 
labored,  he  suffered  every  imaginable  torment. 
Dantean  visions  were  but  thin  shadows  of  the 
miseries  that  his  poor  soul  endured.  He  resolved 
to  pray,  but  he  tangled  the  Lord's  prayer  and 
"Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep"  into  a  snarl  that  he 
could  by  no  means  unravel.  He  finally  gave  up 
trying,  and  thought  that  he  would  repent  of  hi.s 
sins,  but  his  own  shortcomings  constantly  slipped 
out  of  sight  behind  the  greater  misdoings  of  his 
fellow  beings  in  a  way  that  always  brought  him 
back  to  a  realization  of  his  own  hard  fate. 

During  his  many  tribulations,  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  he  could  lighten  life's  burden  by  dis 
posing  of  the  goats.  They  had  grown  to  be  a  part 
of  his  existence,  and  he  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  dispensing  with  breath  as  with  his  flock. 
The  night  dragged  on,  but  no  dreams  flitted  his 
way.  The  weary  hours  lengthened  into  never-end 
ing  terrors  that  grew  more  and  more  gigantic  as 
morning  approached. 

At  the  appointed  time,  the  three  men  were  at  the 
designated  spot.  To  Joe  the  affair  was  huge  fun. 


92  THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTJ  ANN. 

He  afterwards  declared  that  it  was  better  than  a 
circus  with  a  dozen  sideshows,  and  that  he 
would  not  have  missed  it  for  a  mint  of  money.  He 
greatly  regretted  that  such  a  novel  treat  should  be 
wasted  on  so  small  an  audience.  He  contrived  to 
look  solemn,  as  befitted  the  occasion,  but  whenever 
he  glanced  at  John's  quaking  figure,  it  cost  him  a 
severe  struggle  to  "command  his  countenance." 

While  he  paced  oft'  the  distance,  he  urged  John 
to  keep  up  his  courage,  but  when  he  told  the  men 
to  take  their  places,  John  stood  stockstill,  appar 
ently  unable  to  move  hand  or  foot.  Joe  walked 
up  to  him,  took  him  by  the  arm  and  deliberately 
marched  him  to  his  place,  turned  him  about,  and 
stood  him  in  position  as  if  he  were  a  tin  soldier. 
He  stood  pale  and  limp,  his  hands  glued  to  his 
sides,  and  the  horse-pistol  tucked  securely  under 
arm. 

"All  ready,  now,"  called  Joe. 

"Ow!  Ow!  Hold  on!"  screamed  John.  "I— I— I 
ain't  quite  ready  yet." 

Joe  waited  some  time,  then  again  called 
"Ready!" 


THE  COLONEL  AND  BETTJ  ANN.  93 

"No!  No!  Not  yet!"  wailed  the  terror-stricken 
John.  "Anybody  can  see  that  I  haven't  half  a 
show.  Him  with  a  great,  long  gun  reaching  over 
the  whole  distance  right  into  a  fellow's  face,  and  I 
with  only  a  short  bit  of  a  shooter.  Can't  you  see 
it  ain't  even  ?  His  distance  should  be  greater  than 
mine." 

"Oh,  don't  be  squeamish,  John,"  said  Joe,  en 
couragingly.  "Your  pistol's  the  better  weapon  of 
the  two;  besides,  you  know  very  well  that  his  old 
gun  kicks.  It  never  shoots  straight  any  way." 

"'Yes,  that's  just  it.  It  never  shoots  straight,  so 
of  course  he'll  aim  crooked  and  hit  me  by  chance." 

"Come!  Come!"  shouted  Tony,  "I'm  getting 
tired  of  this.  Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  stand 
here  all  day  like  a  post,  waiting  for  that  bottle- 
stopper?  Screw  up  your  courage  and  come  to 
time,  or  I'll  make  a  sieve  of  you.  When  that 
'Three!'  sounds  your  soul  will  be  in  hell." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Joe,"  pleaded  John.  "Do 
you  hear  what  he's  saying,  when  I'm  standing  up 
here  like  a  martyr  to  be  slaughtered  in  cold  blood. 
Go  on,  now,  and  no  man  can  say  that  I  didn't  bear 
the  agonies  of  death  with  fortitude." 


94  *tiE  COLONEL  AND  BETTY  ANN. 

"All  right/'  answered  Joe.     "One!  Two! " 

The  "Three!"  was  never  uttered.  A  wild  shriek 
rent  the  air.  The  pistol  lay  on  the  ground,  and 
John's  legs  were  covering  the  distance  between  the 
battleground  and  his  cabin  at  a  speed  that  would 
have  done  credit  to  an  ostrich. 

As  he  fled  past  the  oaktree,  the  Colonel  arose 
from  among  his  sleeping  companions,  and  quietly 
gazed  after  the  flying  figure.  A  self-satisfied  rip 
ple  fluttered  from  his  throat  as  he  settled  back  in 
his  place,  assuring  the  vigilant  Betty  Ann  that  it 
was  nothing  a  woman  could  understand. 


SQUEALING  ALEX 

BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT  WILSON, 


SQUEALING  ALEX. 

Over  the  hill  comes  the  queerest  apparition. 
His  hair  floats  before  him  like  a  black  banner,  and 
a  ragged  cotton  bandana  crowns  him  king  of  the 
uniques.  His  tattered  blouse  reveals  patches  of 
brown,  shiny  skin  and  the  dilapidated  overalls  are 
characteristically  curved  to  accommodate  the  bend 
of  his  short  legs.  He  has  a  small,  peaked  face  with 
restless,  beady  eyes  that  seem  constantly  peering  for 
game.  The  upper  lip  shuts  firmly  upon  the  pro 
truding  under  one  as  if  foretelling  the  fate  of  un 
fortunate  woodchucks  that  get  within  range  of 
his  gun.  He  speaks  very  little  English,  and  when 
addressed  looks  at  the  speaker  with  the  faint  trace 
of  a  smile  bending  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
When  talking  his  voice  assumes  a  high  squeaking 
tone,  for  which  reason  he  is  called  Squealing  Alex. 
His  days  are  spent  on  the  lake  shore,  where  he 
fishes  for  toothsome  speckled  victims,  or  in  tramp- 

(97) 


98  SQUEALING  ALEX. 

ing  over  the  hills  in  search  of  "ground-hogs."  If 
successful,  night  finds  him  seated  beside  his  camp 
fire,  eating  roasted  fish  or  ground-hog  and  supping 
flour  porridge.  His  wife  is  a  filthy  old  squaw  who 
sits  all  day  weaving  coarse  baskets.  She  drives  a 
close  bargain  and  always  gives  the  money  to  Alex 
for  safekeeping.  His  money  pouch  is  the  dressed 
skin  of  a  chipmunk.  The  real  Indian  character 
istics  are  more  marked  in  him  than  in  any  other 
man  of  the  tribe.  He  prefers  to  hunt  and  fish 
during  the  summer  when  other  Indians  are  work 
ing  for  the  whites.  He  carries  more  of  the  race 
type  in  appearance,  movements  and  habits  than 
the  other  men.  In  fact,  he  is  an  excellent  speci 
men  of  the  degenerate  native  American.  The 
finest  traits  of  the  savage  American  yellow  man 
are  gone  and  only  the  crudest  elements  of  civiliza 
tion  assumed. 

His  contempt  for  whites  is  supreme.  He  is 
never  seen  about  the  hotel  kitchen,  as  he  prefers 
his  own  simple  diet,  and  it  is  only  upon  very  rare 
occasions  that  he  will  talk  to  any  white  person. 

Once  he  forgot  to  turn  his  back  and  the  con 
temptuous  little  smile  gave  way  to  more  tragic 


SQUEALING  ALEX.  99 

expression.  This  was  one  day  when  a  skillful  hun 
ter  showed  him  his  gun  and  told  of  a  successful 
bear  hunt  of  the  previous  week.  Not  to  be  out 
done.  Alex  recounted  the  thrilling  experience  of 
his  last  raid  upon  a  woodchuck  burrow.  As  the 
hunter  spoke  no  Indian,  and  Alex  knew  but  little 
English,  the  adventures  were  mostly  communicat 
ed  by  means  of  pantomime. 

Pointing  to  an  imaginary  woodchuck  hole,  Alex 
placed  himself  in  a  attitude  of  waiting,  with  make- 
believe  gun  ready  for  instant  action.  With  head 
thrust  forward  in  eager  expectation,  he  repeated  in 
suppressed  hushes:  "Sh!  Sh!  Sh!"  to  show  that 
all  must  be  very  still.  Now  he  puts  up  one  finger 
and  stretches  up  his  neck  in  imitation  of  the  cau 
tious  woodchuck's  preparations  for  exit.  Disap 
pointment  comes  over  his  face;  with  a  slow  shake 
of  the  head  he  repeats:  "Little  one — little  one!" 
Again  he  waits,  up  come  two  fingers,  the  neck 
stretches,  but  the  look  of  disappointment  and  the 
monotonous  drone  of  "Little  one — little  one!"  tell 
that  the  desired  prey  has  not  appeared.  At  last, 
trembling  with  eagerness,  the  head  moves  up  and 
down,  the  suppressed  "Sh!  Sh!"  is  changed  to  a 


1  00  SQUEALING  ALEX. 

long-drawn  "A-a-h!"  of  satisfaction.  Mimic  aim 
is  taken,  a  loud  "Boom!"  bursts  from  the  puffed- 
out  cheeks.  With  face  aglow  he  rushes  to  the 
hole  and  drags  forth  the  phantom  prize.  High 
he  holds  it  before  the  admiring  gaze  of  his  com 
panion.  Suddenly  he  turns  and  walks  away  as  if 
indignant  at  the  part  he  had  been  playing.  And 
his  sullen  bearing  during  the  following  days  gave 
the  impression  that  he  thoroughly  disapproved  of 
himself  for  having  condescended  to  have  friendly 
intercourse  with  a  white  man. 


PRINCE  OF  ORANGE. 

BY 

ELIZABETH   SARGENT  WILSON. 


PRINCE  OF  CHANGE. 

"Angora,  you'd  flirt  with  a  mail-box.  You're  a 
reproach  to  all  decent  goats/' 

"Billy,  when  your  love  for  me  frapped,  I  re 
solved  a  resolution.  I  said  to  myself,  'Angora 
Woolyaphis  Goat,  don't  make  yourself  miserable 
over  a  small  matter  like  that.  That's  the  way  all 
married  men  do.  Go  thou  and  do  likewise.'  " 

"Billy,  I  do  likewise,  and  as  casting  goat's  eyes 
at  every  good  looking  nanny  that  comes  your  way 
is  a  fixed  habit  of  yours,  don't  scowl  at  me  when  I 
smile  upon  a  nice  William  to  my  liking.  Now  take 
that  toboggan  slide  of  yours  off  arid  ponder." 

William  perched  himself  on  the  sunny  side  of  a 
granite  boulder  and  reflected  thus:  "What  in  the 
devil  am  I  to  do  about  it?  She  has  the  advantage 
of  me  every  way.  To  begin  with,  there's  blood. 
She's  pure  angora,  while  I'm  just  ordinary,  com 
mon,  smelly  goat.  Then  she  has  intellect.  Jim- 
(103) 


104  PRINCE  OF  ORANGE. 

miny!  but  she's  smart!  She's  educated  besides. 
Why,  she's  been  sneaking  into  backyards  eating 
newspapers  ever  since  she  was  a  kid. 

"After  a  fill  of  that  diet,  plain  earth  is  not  good 
enough  for  her.  Why,  she'd  pick  flaws  in  the  pal 
aces  of  gold  and  pearl  and  sneer  at  the  jeweled  pav 
ing  stones  of  heaven. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  true  about  those  paving  stones, 
or  if  some  old  Billygoat  of  the  past  just  made  it 
up. 

"Well,  to  come  back  to  Angora,  I  have  political 
aspirations;  I  want  to  be  school  trustee,  and  I  think 
I  can  work  it  if  Angora  don't  get  wind  of  it.  If 
she  does,  Fm  a  gone  goat. 

"I'll  approach  her  and  throw  her  off  the  track. 

"Angora,  my  dear!" 

"What  is  it,  Billy?" 

"I  have  an  idea." 

"Go  put  it  in  the  safe  deposit,  my  love,  and  in 
the  course  of  time  it  may  sprout.  It's  the  first 
idea  I  ever  knew  you  to  possess.  What  sort  of 
an  incubator  did  you  use?" 

"Damn  it!    What  do  you  mean?" 


PRINCE  OF  ORANGE.  1Q5 

"Billy,  don't  use  such  language;  the  kids  will 
pick  it  up." 

"Well,  Angora,  you  drive  me  mad.  You  poke 
fun  at  everything  I  say  or  do." 

"I'll  be  good,  my  love;  now  spread  out  your 
idea." 

"Now,  it's  this,  my  beauty.  You  know  the  elec 
tion  for  school  trustees  comes  off  next  week.  Some 
of  the  men  have  suggested  that  a  woman  be 
elected." 

"Who's  the  woman,  Bill?" 

"Well,  several  were  mentioned,  but  none  settled 
on  definitely.  Now,  Angora,  if  a  woman  is  to  be 
trustee  in  this  district,  it's  got  to  be  you,  if  I  have 
to  yank  up  all  the  trees  in  the  forest  and  smash 
every  last  voter's  head  with  them." 

"Billy,  don't  make  a  bigger  fool  of  yourself  than 
the  good  Lord  had  in  rnind  when  He  constructed 
you.  I'll  attend  to  the  matter  myself.  Where's 
my  hat?" 

"Play  a  waltz,  Kidalina,"  said  William,  as  An 
gora  sped  away  to  the  neighbors.  "Your  father 
feels  like  dancing  a  bit." 


106  PRINCE  OF  ORANGE. 

"Tra  la  la,  tra  la  la, 

Nanny  goat! 
You'll  get  left,  you'll  get  left, 

Don't  you  know't? 
Tee  he  he,  tee  he  he, 

But  'tis  jolly! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!      Ha,  ha,  ha! 

By  golly! 
Rumty  turn,  Eumty  turn — 

School  trustee! 
Ho,  ho,  ho!     Ho,  ho,  ho! 

I'll  be  he!" 

"I  tell  you,  when  it  comes  to  politics,  women 
are  not  in  it.  They  haven't  that  logical  reasoning 
power  necessary  for  such  work.  They  jump  at 
conclusions  and  keep  things  in  a  constant  hubbub. 
It's  no  place  for  them,  anyway — " 

"What  are  you  saying,  Billy?" 

"Oh,  is  that  you,  Angora?  I  was  just  saying  that 
some  folks  think  politics  is  not  the  place  for 
women,  but  I  don't  agree  with  them." 

"Why  do  they  think  so?" 

"Well,  they  say  you're  thrown  in  contact  with 
disreputable  men,  for  one  thing/' 


PRINCE  OF  ORANGE.  1Q7 

"Oh!  Really!  As  we  live  with  them  the  other 
three  hundred  sixty-four  and  one-half  days,  I  can't 
see  that  they  would  tarnish  us  more  than  they 
already  have,  that  other  six  hours." 

"Gosh!  but  the  sun's  hot,  Angora.  I'm  going 
up  in  the  shade  of  that  rock  to  cool  off." 

Time  dragged  until  the  eventful  Tuesday  of  the 
election.  The  day  was  too  sultry  for  much  of  any 
contest  or  protest.  One  man,  however,  had  energy 
enough  for  a  harangue.  This  was  a  certain  goat 
of  Italian  breed,  a  hard  worker,  who  carried  about 
an  aroma  of  fertilizing  materials. 

"I  hera  the  peop  talka  the  woma  for  trustee. 
The  woma  for  stay  homa,  cooka,  sewa,  washa, 
churna,  scruba,  hava  the  baba;  soma  more  time 
left,  diga  the  garda.  No  gooda  for  trustee.  No 
gooda  worka  thait  for  woma.  Too  harda — she  no 
understanda  the  politica.  Every  day  I  whipa 
my  wifa — I  whipa  my  girla — maka  stay  homa.  My 
wifa  gooda  woma,  I  nominata  for  trustee  this 
schoola  William  Oranga  Goata." 

And  William  was  elected. 

The  first  half  mile  of  the  homeward  walk  was 
ecstatic,  but  at  a  turn  in  the  road  the  pine  tree 


108  PRINCE  OF  ORANGE. 

that  marked  their  abode  stood  like  a  spire  against 
the  sky.  Angora  is  under  that  tree  awaiting  his 
return.  During  the  next  half  mile,  lead  seemed 
to  settle  in  William's  feet,  and  the  last  half  mile — 
Whew!  His  whole  inside  felt  hollowed  out  and 
the  cavity  filled  with  mercury. 

Angora's  eyes  measured  him  as  he  dragged  him 
self  into  her  presence.  There  was  a  steely  look  in 
them  that  seemed  to  take  in  the  situation.  The 
mercury  began  to  ooze  through  every  pore  in  his 
body. 

"Well,  Bill,  who  is  trustee?" 

"I  am,  Angora;  I  couldn't  help  it.  They  in 
sisted,  against  my  urgent  protest;  but  I  couldn't 
control  the  gang.  Sure,  Angora.  Yes,  Angora; 
I  really  did. 

"Well,  Angora,  why  don't  you  say  something, 
and  not  sit  there  looking  at  me  like  a  refriger 
ator?" 

"William  Orange  Goat,  when  I  have  nothing  to 
say,  I  say  it." 

"Angora,  you're  enough  to  drive  a  man  clean 
crazy.  You  surely  think  something.  What  is 
it?" 


PRINCE  OF  ORANGE.  1Q9 

"William,  I'm  thinking  of  the  Battle  of  the 
Boyne;  also  of  Balaam's  ass." 

Through  the  coming  months,  things  went  on 
smoothly.  William  could  not  imagine  what  had 
struck  Angora.  "Butter  wouldn't  melt  in  her 
mouth/'  he  declared,,  and  he  felt  leary  as  of  a  calm 
before  a  terrible  storm. 

One  day  she  announced  that  she  was  going  to 
Pine  Grove.  The  convention  met  that  day  for  the 
nomination  of  county  officers.  William  remained 
at  home  and  looked  after  the  kids.  His  wife  did 
not  return  until  late  that  night,  when  she  calmly 
announced  that  she  had  received  the  nomination 
for  county  superintendent  of  schools.  William 
climbed  to  his  perch  in  the  rocks  and  cried  real, 
Billygoat  tears. 

He  knew  that  she  would  be  elected.  She  was, 
and  the  agony  a  certain  trustee  endured  under  her 
merciless  administration  goes  down  on  the  record 
as  a  warning  to  all  goat  posterity. 


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